


Bound by the Things We Choose

by winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Emotional Constipation, F/M, Fake Marriage, Mutual Pining, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Stargazing, Swimming, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, enjoy their poor communication skills, these two are peak dumbasses here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: Jaime's pretty certain he would remember standing across from the dour, hulking Maid of Tarth and swearing to be with her until the end of his days.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 492
Kudos: 694





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beesreadbooks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beesreadbooks/gifts).



> Who doesn't love a good book canon fake marriage fic where Jaime and Brienne go to Tarth?
> 
> I am not going to promise a strict update schedule with this, but I am writing it steadily and plan to post one chapter a week, but not on an assigned day.

“Ser Jaime and I are wed, your grace.”

Jaime is a well-treated prisoner, but the grasp his head has on his shoulders is tenuous at best. Today, they’re in the Red Keep deciding his fate. 

The Dragon Queen, so unlike her father that Jaime manages to draw breath in her company, raises _both_ eyebrows. They’re pale and silver as moonlight, but even from across the throne room, her incredulity comes through clearly.

“Lady Brienne,” Daenerys says, “An entire moon has passed since I took the throne. How has this...news not been brought to my attention?”

Jaime wants to be privy to that knowledge, too. He’s pretty certain he would remember standing across from the dour, hulking Maid of Tarth and swearing to be with her until the end of his days. He decides it’s in her best interest, and probably his, too, to stay as silent as a mummer.

“Um,” Brienne begins, “Ser Jaime was worried that I would incur your ire if you knew, so he bade me to keep it a secret.”

The wench is a _terrible_ liar--they’d only made it a league from Pennytree before he looked her in the eyes, still that same astonishing blue, and said _I think I deserve the truth._ Tears welled up, and she told him the entire cursed tale.

The queen tilts her head to the side and turns her violet gaze to _him._ It’s ridiculous, to be afraid of her--she’s sixteen summers’ old and barely a woman. Regardless of temperament, she _looks_ so much like her father that Jaime’s whole body tenses.

“Is this true, Kingslayer?”

_Well, fuck me._

Jaime, seated until now in the audience near the edge of the throne room, stands. “I--yes, your grace. The we-- _Lady Brienne_ likes to go yelling about my honor to anyone who will listen. I don’t want any harm to befall her from her association with me, so I told her we should keep it between us.”

Brienne turns and looks at him; she’d do well to close her mouth and stop gaping at him like a fish if she wants her plan to succeed.

 _“Really,”_ Daenerys leans back onto the iron throne, “Tell me, Ser Jaime, what do you think I ought to do with the man who killed my father, who he was sworn to serve and give his life for?”

“You should kill me,” Jaime answers, “and make my poor lady wife a widow.”

The wench isn’t gawping at him anymore; now, she looks pissed. Jaime can hear her say _why are you undoing my efforts by running your mouth?_

Brienne would mourn him, but she’d find a better man to take to the marriage bed. Not that they’re _really_ married. Jaime only _feels_ like they are because who is closer to him than Brienne of Tarth? Who’s been with him through more suffering? Brienne kept faith in him long before Jaime knew he craved for someone--for _her--_ to.

“You shouldn’t,” she blurts, “because Ser Jaime has honor, and he did the right thing by slaying the Mad King. I won’t hear him maligned for it.”

Jaime felt blind panic when Brienne first met the Dragon Queen, afraid that whatever fate befell him, the Kingslayer, would be her end, too. _The price for placing faith in me._ The thought of Brienne burning in her armor like Rickard Stark makes bile rise in his throat. Instead, Daenerys _likes_ Brienne. At first, Jaime thought it was because of the wench’s long ago Targaryen ancestor, but Brienne wasn’t immune to fire and _definitely_ couldn’t ride a dragon. 

_“Wench,”_ he blurts, “For once, just _shut up!”_

For someone so shy, Brienne was forceful when she felt indignant and stubborn as a mule.

Daenerys giggles--girlish and _nothing_ like her father’s unhinged cackle. _“When_ exactly did this union occur?”

 _We’re going to blurt something opposing and ruin this._ Jaime bites the inside of his cheek and waits for Brienne to dig their graves.

“At Winterfell, your grace,” Brienne says.

“And who stood as witness?”

“In the Northern custom it’s not needed. Two people can pledge themselves to each other in the godswood.”

“Is this true, Sansa?” Daenerys asks.

Sansa is a few seats over from Jaime. She and Daenerys are, of all impossible situations, _friends._ Jon Snow, now Warden of the North, sent Sansa to King’s Landing on his behalf.

“It’s true,” Sansa nods solemnly. “The old gods witness the union, and no other is needed. It’s not always done this way, but it’s completely valid.”

“And you knew of this union?”

“I did. The two of them are _very_ in love. It’s been like that ever since they freed me from the Vale and escorted me home. Lady Brienne asked me to keep the secret, of course.”

Jaime makes eye contact with Brienne, and somehow she _still_ looks offended that Sansa would lie for her. _She’s helping you,_ Jaime wants to shout.

Ned Stark’s bones would shake in the crypt at Winterfell if he saw how well his oldest daughter could lie. 

* * *

A man with two hands could carry Jaime's earthly possessions in one trip, which is exactly what happens. One of the queen's Unsullied brings Jaime's things, Widow’s Wail included, and drops them in a heap right past the threshold of Brienne's chamber.

Jaime would say something snide, but the poor bastard is a eunuch, so he holds his tongue. That might be worse than a missing swordhand. Not that Jaime's had much use for his cock in recent times with only his left hand for company. It was almost as deficient at _that_ as it was swordplay.

Brienne's brows are set in a grumpy line, and her arms are crossed. 

"I hope you're not irritated that your _lord husband_ is in your chambers."

She doesn't respond.

"I _do_ wonder about our nuptials. I'm not as young as I once was, but I'm _certain_ I'm not too addled as to forget marrying you. Did you give me milk of the poppy and drag me to the godswood? I never took you for the type--"

"I didn't know what the queen was going to do to you." Now, her freckles are mottled with a blush. "I just... blurted it. You have my apologies."

Jaime flops onto the bed and spreads his arms and legs; it's bigger and softer than the pallet in his room. He'd been stuffed in quarters fit for a steward. Not that he was complaining because it was better than dying in a variety of painful ways.

"This bed is _much_ nicer than my previous accommodations. If you're a dutiful _wife_ , wench, I might even share it with you."

"It's _my_ bed!" 

"The bed is yours by the grace of our queen."

She huffs through her nose like a disgruntled bull, "Don't play word games; you know my intent."

"Do I, though?" 

Rankling Brienne is one of the few pleasures left to a one-handed knight with no lands or title. Jaime may have lost everything he once thought to hold dear, but the wench is intractable at his side, no matter his deeds.

 _His_ wench.

Jaime's never quite been able to tell Brienne what her faith means. It's so acute that he lacks the language to express it with any sincerity. Sansa scolded him once on the road to Winterfell, asking him if he was a schoolboy who only knew how to show his care through jibes. He bristled, but it was true--being honest with Brienne was akin to using his left hand. It was cumbersome, didn’t work how he wanted, and slow to improve.

It’s too hard to tell Brienne that her unwavering belief reshaped him more than any force could. Brienne saw a better man, and Jaime isn’t close to that, but he keeps reaching.

And now, Brienne is his not-wife.

When she sits next to him on the bed, Jaime starts laughing. Once he starts, it’s like a boat taking on water--he can’t stop. He hasn’t tried to swim one-handed and, when the whole thing floods, he will probably sink. Jaime hasn’t laughed in a way that wasn’t sardonic or tinged with bitterness in what feels like an age, and within a short span of time, he feels near-hysterical.

His eyes water from it, and he wipes at them with the sleeve of his right arm. With his vision not blurry, Jaime sees Brienne’s concerned blue eyes peering down at him. Jaime doesn't know how to tell her, and she wouldn’t believe him anyway, but Brienne would make a fine wife. 

Jaime grins at her, and Brienne mutters under her breath, _“Seven hells,_ I think I broke him.”

* * *

The difference between loving Renly and loving Jaime is that Brienne’s feelings for Renly brought her nothing but anguish. Even though she knew he would _never_ look at her, she was foolish enough to be desperate for a glance. She offered her service because there was no chance of being wanted for anything else. 

In the end, she failed at even that.

Jaime is equally impossible. Brienne felt her fair share of angst over that in the years of their relationship. Her love for Jaime steals her breath and makes her heart hammer like a war drum if she dwells on it too long. She wants to be a knight, but she also wants to be a bride.

Loving Jaime, even in secret, brings Brienne happiness. Jaime is her friend, and a true one. He gifted her with a sword and a quest. When she failed, he let her cry into his shoulder and helped her find Sansa. 

“I sent a maiden out on an impossible task,” he whispered, “I had _too_ much faith in you. No one person could accomplish a feat like this.”

No one had ever believed in her _too_ much before; everyone only saw what she _wasn’t_ fit to be.

Brienne wasn’t sure _what_ Queen Daenerys was going to do to Jaime, but she knew she wasn’t going to let it happen. The new queen has proven to be kind, but letting the man who slayed her father go free might be seen as a weakness. Jaime’s wellbeing is Brienne’s charge, even if she’s never said that aloud. Lies don’t come easy to her, but she can manage if there’s a need.

It’s the worst and best lie she’s ever told because she’d marry Jaime in an _instant_ if he asked her.

Pod is the first person to find her once she exits the throne room; Brienne hadn’t even known he was present.

“My lady,” Pod catches her elbow, “You didn’t tell me that you are Ser Jaime wed at Winterfell.” Her squire’s expression shows his hurt that either of them would keep something of such paramount importance from him.

Brienne ushers him to a quiet spot in the corridor. The top of Pod’s head reaches Brienne’s chin--he’s ten-and-five, and so different from the stumbletongue boy who followed her as she searched for Sansa. She’s proud of him--he’s gracious and true; and will be a better knight than many. 

Like Jaime, Pod’s loyalty never wavered. _It doesn’t even occur to him that what I said might be false._

“We didn’t.” It’s easy to whisper something to him. “I wasn’t sure what the queen was going to do; I was trying to protect Ser Jaime.”

Her squire’s face crumbles, “Oh, I was happy for the two of you.”

“Why?”

“Because you love him, my lady, and he surely loves you in return.”

Pod looks ready to argue should Brienne disagree; not knowing what to say, she holds her tongue.

_Oh, how I wish that were true._

* * *

Brienne expects Jaime to be angry when he enters her chambers. _What a slight to be claimed by someone such as much_ _as me._

It would be like in the early days of their acquaintance when every word was a well-timed jab. She’d grown used to taunts of others, but Jaime seemed to find all the chinks in her armor and weaponize them. Jaime could be cruel with his words, but friendship had softened his taunts almost to gentleness.

She’d name it affection, if she dared, and it didn’t make her breath catch so.

They dine together at the tiny table in her chambers on roast chicken and vegetables brought by a portly woman Brienne has never seen before. She seems content to serve them--the smallfolk like Daenerys because she seems genuinely intent on bettering their lives.

When they’re alone, Jaime grins and picks up the decanter of red wine. “I think _my lady wife_ would like another glass.”

Brienne’s stubbornness has her reply, “I thank you, my _lord husband.”_

The servant didn’t plate their food, so Brienne carves into the chicken with a knife, She plates Jaime’s first, cutting it into pieces he can pick up with his fork. Jaime watches her with a soft smile on his features, green eyes dancing in the light of the taper at the center of the table. Brienne does the same thing with the carrots and potatoes.

 _“This_ is reason enough to wed you, wench.” Jaime picks up a potato with his fork and eats it. “Who else would cut my food like I’m a babe?”

“Anyone who cared for you.”

“And who else, _sweetling,_ is that?”

“Never me again,” she snips in response. Brienne doesn’t mean it, and Jaime knows it. She’ll do the same with his breakfast and his supper for as long as they’re together.

Jaime’s silent for a while as he eats; then, he gives Brienne a small, almost boyish smile, and tells her, “Thank you, wench. No one has ever kept me half as well as you.”

It says a lot that it makes Brienne’s heart race more to hear him call her _wench_ than _sweetling._

* * *

Of course, there’s only one bed in her room.

Jaime, laughing, elbows Brienne in the side with his right arm, “Which side do you prefer?”

“I don’t have a preference.”

“I like the left,” he says.

If she has the luxury of a room to herself and a bed, Brienne likes her legs bare when she sleeps. She turns down the comforter and sits at the edge of the bed, back to Jaime. Then, Brienne takes off her boots, and unlaces her breeches. The process is halfway done before Jaime coughs loudly.

Brienne freezes.

“We’re taking the ruse _quite_ seriously, then.”

She turns her head just enough to see Jaime unfastening his doublet and shrugging it off. _Is it possible for my legs to blush?_ Because it certainly _feels_ like they’re as on fire as the rest of her. Her pants are bunched around her calves, but thankfully, the shirt is long enough that it covers her smallclothes and her thighs. Brienne sits on the edge of the bed and hides her face.

“M-my apologies; I’m used to being alone.”

Jaime laughs merrily, “Well, no longer. This is our marriage bed, now.” He climbs under the sheets and pats the bed.

Brienne isn’t sure which promises more mortification--pulling her pants back up or taking them the rest of the way off. Jaime will tease her more for the former, so she finishes the task and gets in bed. Then, she turns her back to him and blows out the candle.

“See, we’re all snug together again. It’s just like when we travelled, only we smell better and we’re not freezing to death.”

* * *

Pretending to be Brienne’s husband brings Jaime to the realization that he’s _very_ much in love with the wench and probably has been for years.

Sometimes, he’ll wake in the night to find Brienne has shifted closer to him, her back pressed against his. Jaime doesn’t think she’s awake when she does it, but it sends a little thrill through him and makes him think _she wants to be close to me._ Jaime stays awake after those moments, staring at the patch of night sky through the open window. 

Not a single person is surprised to learn Brienne and he are wed; even people who Jaime’s _certain_ want his head on a spike outside the city gates nod like it’s the obvious course. 

_They all knew my heart long before I did._ A good love, one that’s healthy and betters and soothes him, isn’t something Jaime’s ever learned to recognize. Even though it’s a ruse, it’s better than anything Jaime’s felt before.

A sennight later, Daenerys calls them before her again, this time for tea. Jaime doesn’t like tea and hopes it’s all finger foods. Brienne will _absolutely_ cut his food before the queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and Jaime will let her because he likes the looks of incredulity people give them when Brienne thinks him worthy of her kindness. He likes it much more than struggling alone with only his pride as company.

The queen is perched upon a chaise on a veranda overlooking Blackwater Bay. Less than a decade ago, Jaime sat here with Cersei and listened to her complain about Robert, enraged with jealousy. 

The memory might as well belong to another man in another life. 

Daenerys is wearing a gown of purple silk that matches her eyes. Her hair is loose except for two braids that meet at the back of her head. 

“I respect the Northern traditions,” Danearys tells them, “but I think the two of you should be wed here in the sept.”

Brienne nearly chokes on her tea; her grip on the delicate porcelain is so tight she’s likely to shatter the cup. “I--um, is that really necessary, your grace?”

“No,” the queen replies, “but I’d prefer to see the ceremony with my own eyes.”

“Want to be certain the Kingslayer isn’t running amok around the Red Keep?” Jaime leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “My father always wanted me to take a wife.”

“I think Lady Brienne keeps you in line,” Daenerys smiles, and it’s entirely too sly for Jaime’s comfort.

“My father,” Brienne speaks so forcefully that Jaime startles in the chair next to her. “He...doesn’t know Ser Jaime and I wed. If..if we’re going to do a proper ceremony, I’d like him to be present.”

 _Clever,_ Jaime thinks, _the wench is buying us time._ He’ll do her a favor and not interject.

“Send for him, then,” the queen replies.

“Your grace, Tarth was badly damaged in the siege by the Golden Company. I’m afraid, as the lord of Tarth, he’s needed for the rebuilding.” Brienne pauses and bites her lip. “And...when I was a girl, I always imagined I’d be wed in the sept at Evenfall.”

It’s surprisingly easy to imagine Brienne, over half her life ago, imagining her wedding.

Danearys’s features soften, “You wish to return home, Lady Brienne?”

“I do wish to.”

“I often think of the home I grew up in. As we moved around Essos, I always wanted to return there.”

Brienne smiles, “So you understand.”

“I do,” she replies, “Your father will write to me when the ceremony is complete, and visit King’s Landing to swear his loyalty as soon as he can be spared. Tarth isn't of any use to the Seven Kingdoms in ruin.”

Brienne stands and bows, “You’ve my gratitude, your grace. I haven’t seen my father in over five years.” 

* * *

There’s a lot Jaime wants to say to Brienne, but Tyrion appears with a message for the queen and then asks to speak with him. Brienne makes eye contact with him as he stands and gives him a tiny nod of encouragement.

_The wench wants me to patch things up with my brother._

The intent is a fine one, but Jaime wants Brienne to try and make amends with the brother who murdered their father and joined the ranks of the enemy. Not that Daenerys is the enemy any longer, but Jaime still thinks it behooves his lifespan to be wary of her. The queen made Tyrion her Hand, so Jaime is wary of him, too.

“You didn’t tell me you married Lady Brienne,” Tyrion opens with when they’re out of earshot.

“I didn’t,” Jaime says, Then, realizing his error, he adds, “...tell anyone. _We_ didn’t, I mean. _”_

Tyrion looks up at him and holds his gaze for a moment too long. “Father would’ve loved that; all he ever longed for was for you to many and make a pride of little lions to inherit the Casterly Rock.”

 _“Don’t_ talk about Father in front of me,” Anger rushes through Jaime. “And neither of us will be getting Casterly Rock.”

“You’re right about that,” he replies, “Daenerys won’t let a Lannister be Warden of the West in our lifetimes.”

“I never wanted it anyway,” Jaime crosses his arms. “Tyrion, that was always you, even though Father never noticed you were more alike than Cersei or me.” He doesn’t want to think of his sister, either.

“You should go to Tarth, Jaime,” Tyrion looks up at him; Jaime looks at the Hand of the King pin on his chest instead. 

“If Brienne’s going, I don’t have much of a choice.”

“You’ve never been happy, but you look closest to it when you’re with Lady Brienne.”

* * *

Jaime goes back to Brienne’s chambers and finds her sitting on the bed, seemingly lost in thought. The sun isn’t set yet, but Jaime thinks he could retire for the day after speaking with his brother and the queen.

“Did the queen keep you long?” Jaime asks.

Brienne glances up, and her blue eyes meet his. “No, not long. Jaime...she asked me to be part of her Queensguard.”

 _That’s_ such a statement that Jaime has to sit down next to her. “You told her you wish to return to Tarth.”

“T-to be wed,” Brienne shuts her eyes, “She asked me to return once things are rebuilt.”

The idea of Brienne wearing the white cloak, even with modified oaths, makes Jaime’s stomach clench like he hasn’t eaten in days. She told him, days ago, that she wanted to return to Tarth. Jaime hadn’t said anything, yet, but he’d been building an image in his mind, one where he went with her and saw the sapphire waters for himself.

It was a daydream, but it made Jaime happy.

“What did you tell her?”

Brienne turns her head and looks out the window; the sky is the same blue as her eyes, and a seagull cries. “I thanked her for the offer, but I refused.”

Jaime feels the corners of his mouth quirk upward, “Why’d you refuse?”

“I think one Kingsguard was enough for me,” she replies.

“It certainly was for me,” Jaime agrees. “I’m...glad you refused.”

When Brienne turns back to him, her expression is one Jaime can’t decipher. Not that it’s surprising--he has a long tenure of reading her wrong and misspeaking. 

“It would’ve thrilled me as a girl. It did when Renly placed the rainbow cloak on my shoulders. I’m a bit older now, and a bit less idealistic.” She smiles, but it’s a self-deprecating one Jaime knows well. “I saw what that type of oath did to someone I care about, and I’m not keen on swearing it.”

“Is the one you care about a jaded, honorless, one-handed knight?”

Brienne’s smile turns a little softer. Jaime basks in these moments--where her gentleness shines through the palisade she keeps herself behind. When Brienne lets him in, Jaime’s so afraid of breaking something that he keeps his lone hand to himself. 

“I’m certain I’ve _never_ met anyone like that.”

“I suppose I can see why you’d want to wipe me from your mind.” It’s a jest, but there’s a little stab behind it. He thinks, every day, of the ways Brienne has suffered for him. The scar marring her cheek is just the wound he can see.

“What? No, I--”

“Calm down, wench, I’m making a poorly-timed joke.” They’re close enough that it’s easy to press his thigh against hers. It’s a small comfort, but it’s something. “Are you choosing to go to Tarth to protect me?”

She shakes her head; a few wisps come loose from her braid. Her hair looks softer than he remembers; the little bottles of things along the bureau must be from Sansa. “I’ve wanted to return for some time now. I’m Father’s heir; it’s time to stop running around Westeros avoiding that.”

“What will the Evenstar think of your disgraced Lannister husband?” 

Jaime isn’t sure when he started talking about their marriage as though it’s real. He has no idea what Brienne plans to do when they get to Tarth, and her father is expected to prove they wed in a sept. Roping him into their deception seems unlikely.

“Father can be...severe, but I think coming home alive and willing to do my duty will ease his concerns.”

“I can promise to be a good consort.”

Brienne’s laugh is girlish, and it reminds Jaime of how _young_ she is. Any idealism had been snuffed out of him long before he reached her age. Hers, even tempered by reality, endures. 

Jaime should ask her about their impending _real_ wedding, but he’s too content to shatter the fantasy.

_Just a bit more._

Jaime flops back onto the bed again. To his surprise, Brienne joins him, and their legs dangle over the edge. He shuts his eyes and tilts his head to bump against hers. _She’s so warm and so close._

“Tell me about Tarth.”

“Well,” Brienne’s voice has a low cadence Jaime loves, “You already know there’s no sapphires.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an hour at sea, Brienne discovers that Jaime and ships don’t agree with one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CANNOT believe the response this got! Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos and subscriptions. You may notice the chapter count went up by one. Six _really_ will be the last though.
> 
> Also, I looked high and low for some canon regarding Jaime's feelings about being at sea, and didn't find anything (other than him sailing to Dorne in the show, which doesn't exist in book canon). Anyway, I decided he hates them!

It’s a four-day voyage to Tarth.

Brienne didn’t enjoy King’s Landing the first time she was here, so the only person she's truly sad to leave is Sansa. She’s become the kind of friend Brienne dreamed of as a girl, and to lose that in her day-to-day life saddens her. They promise to write and visit one another, and when Sansa hugs her farewell, the words feel like a promise instead of a platitude.

After an hour at sea, Brienne discovers that Jaime and ships don’t agree with one another. He’s sick over the railing, and a few of the crew chuckle at his lack of sea legs until Brienne glares at them and puts her hand on Oathkeeper’s hilt.

“Look at you,” Jaime chuckles as he wipes his mouth, “Defending my reputation.”

“They’re being discourteous, _especially_ since we paid for our passage.”

“Don’t run Oathkeeper through the crew,” he says as Brienne leads him below deck. “I don’t know how to sail and don’t want to be stuck on this damned ship. What a _nasty_ way to meet my end.”

“I know the basics, but one person can’t man this ship.”

Brienne deposits Jaime on the cot in the corner of the room. The space is tiny but private, which is more than the rest of them have, with the exception of the captain. Luxury vessels are in short supply after such a prolonged war. Even Pod is sleeping with the crew. 

Jaime groans theatrically and reaches for the bucket near the bed. _Someone had the foresight to place that there._ Brienne is grateful to that person, whomever they are. When Jaime is done dry heaving, she sits beside him and grabs her satchel. 

“I’d ask if it gets better, but I assume I’m in for four days of slow torture?”

“Chew on this.” She hands him a leaf.

He wrinkles his nose in a way that shouldn’t be _nearly_ as charming as it is, especially when he smells like vomit. 

“What is it?”

“Sip some water first.” She hands him a cup and then drops the leaf into his palm. “It’s peppermint. It will help settle your stomach.”

Jaime obeys without fussing, which says a lot about how he must be feeling. “Do _you_ require any peppermint, Lady Brienne?”

Brienne scoffs, “I was born on an island, Ser Jaime. We learn to sail before we can walk. Have you never been on a ship?”

“Only on rivers,” Jaime replies, “I thought it would be similar.”

“Significantly more motion.”

_“Ugh.”_

“Is the peppermint helping?”

“A little. Maybe my lady wife could comfort me?” Jaime gives her a coy smirk. “They say a lady’s love is the best medicine.”

“I’m _certain_ no one says that.”

Brienne has comforted Jaime before--in the days after he lost his hand when they were captives of the Bloody Mummers. She tried to ward off the infection as best she could while Jaime sobbed and babbled in his anguish. She’d done the same when Tommen died, holding Jaime close while he cried silently into her shirt. Jaime had few true friends, and she wanted him to understand he deserved consideration as much as anyone.

He’s still grinning, and this situation is _much_ less perilous, but all the more so because when Brienne gets too close, Jaime will know her heart. The more affection between them, the more her love will bubble to the surface. It won’t ache too much if Jaime rests his head against her shoulder. Brienne’s heart can even handle it when he takes her right hand in his left.

“You know, I think there might even be a song about being soothed by your lady love. Mayhaps I’ll find it and sing it for you.”

“Keep a wary eye open,” Brienne replies, “I know where you’re sleeping.”

* * *

It’s a good thing the winds are in their favor, and the journey doesn’t take any longer because Jaime looks worse for wear after four days of drinking broth and eating small chunks of bread.

Pod, on the other hand, is swinging from the rigging and picked up an entire new vocabulary of sailor profanities. He’s nearly grown, and Brienne won’t be able to wrestle them from his vocabulary. She comforts herself that it’s probably nothing worse than what Jaime taught her squire.

The ship’s captain calls them to the deck when Tarth is visible on the horizon. The waters are calm, and Brienne hopes it’s enough to keep Jaime from losing his meager lunch over the side of the ship. It’s the first time he’s emerged from their cabin since they boarded.

Jaime shields his eyes from the glare off the water with his right arm; his sleeve is rolled, golden hand long ago lost. The abrupt end of hs arm is an everyday sight to Brienne, but Jaime obfuscates it, tucked in a sleeve or hidden under a dinner table. For a long time, even before their not-marriage, Brienne suspected she was the only one Jaime didn’t hide it from.

“I nearly forgot ya were on board, ser,” the captain calls out. He looks like a hundred seafaring men Brienne saw at Tarth’s port as a child, barrel-chested and with a grizzled beard. 

“I certainly didn’t,” Jaime grips the railing with his left hand, _“Fuck,_ am I glad to see land.”

The captain chuckles, “I won’t ask ya to join the crew, then. It’s a shame because you’re halfway there; we just need to get ya a hook.”

“A hook?” The ship lurches, and Jaime’s grip turns white-knuckled, _“Oh,_ like a pirate. I’ll pass; losing every meal into a slop bucket is a bit too ignoble, even for me.”

The captain laughs even louder, and barks for the crew to make ready for port.

Brienne comes to stand beside Jaime at the railing. Tarth is verdant in the distance--forests and sharp, white cliff faces that drop into the sea. She can’t see Evenfall, but she knows where it sits, high atop a cliff further to the west. She hasn’t seen home in so long that her eyes start to burn.

The sea breeze makes a mess of Jaime’s golden hair. He hasn’t cut it in months, and it curls around his ears. Brienne wonders if he means to let it grow, but it feels too intimate to ask. 

_Beautiful._ Maybe she’s talking about Jaime, or maybe she’s talking about her home, unseen for so long.

“So,” Jaime says, “that’s home.”

_Mine? Or ours?_

“That’s home,” Brienne repeats; her voice wavers a bit, and she hopes Jaime doesn’t notice. “I wonder what’s changed.”

“Some things, certainly.” Jaime turns to look at her, “Are you scared, wench?”

“I’m a poor liar, Jaime.”

“I’m not sure the girl who stood behind Catelyn Stark and looked at me _so_ judgmentally could lie to a queen,” he counters. _“You’ve_ changed.”

“I’ve become dishonest.” She’d been mocked, more than once, for her high-mindedness by Jaime and others. “That’s not what I wanted.”

“Sometimes the truth isn’t what’s needed.” 

“My father will ask more questions than the queen,” Brienne sighs. “He also knows me _much_ better.”

“So we’ll need a convincing tale?” Jaime’s grin is wicked. “I wooed you with a Valyrian steel sword. You saved my life a few times.”

“You sound confident.”

“Brienne,” Jaime’s expression softens, “It’s a truth that’s easy to tell.”

* * *

Tarth’s port looks _just_ different enough that Brienne knows she’s been absent for half a decade. The damage from the Golden Company’s siege lingers--structures are being rebuilt, and there’s damage to the docks. It’s also bustling with sailors, merchants, and fishermen. Brienne’s smiling to herself by the time they leave the dock.

Jaime looks around, “It’s lively.”

“It is.” The sight fills her with such pride.

Pod offers to help with their things, but Brienne’s only valuable possession is Oathkeeper, and it lives at her hip. The rest, a few changes of clothes, fit in a rucksack on her back. Most of the things are worn and mended in her clumsy hand. Jaime is much the same, but he still hands his belongings to Pod, who’s eager to hold Widow’s Wail.

One they’re settled, a tailor might need to be summoned.

“How far is the ride to Evenfall?”

“Half a day with the right horse.” Brienne is already looking around the port for suitable choices. 

“Should I fetch horses, my lady?” Pod asks.

“I’ll do it, Pod, The road is steep and rocky; we’ll need mounts that can handle the path.”

“Queen Daenerys wrote to your father of our _nuptials,”_ Jaime whispers, “I don’t know what she said, though.”

“Lady Sansa read it.” Brienne spots a livery and makes her way to it; Jaime trails behind her. “It was just her expectations for us.”

“There’s so many of those, aren’t there?”

Brienne talks with the horse master and lets him recommend three horses. She passes him gold dragons from the coin purse on her belt and promises to return them the next time a group from Evenfall comes to the port.

“There’s no hurry, my lady,” the man says kindly, “Give Lord Selwyn our regards.”

The ride through the forest is comforting in its familiarity. Brienne travelled it hundreds of times in her youth--the last time when she decided to sail for Storm’s End and offer her sword to Renly. The rocky path crisscrosses the hillside, but the horses navigate it easily.

Pod and Jame are silent behind her; Brienne trusts the horse’s footing enough to glance back. Jaime’s left hand is gripping the reins.

“It’s steep,” he comments, gesturing with his head to the edge of the road where the rocky outcropping drops to the path below. “One wrong foot, and off we go.”

“This is nothing,” Brienne replies, “There’s _much_ steeper paths.”

“At least it’s land.” Jaime chuckles. “After four days on a ship, I might spend the remainder of my days on this island.”

It’s a jest, but Brienne can’t help but wonder how Jaime feels about that. _What about when Father expects us to stand in a sept?_ She can’t think of any solution that won’t trap Jaime with her, and the worst part is that he will thank her for it because she’s trying to safeguard him. 

“When I left, I never thought to make this journey again.”

“Did you think to die in the service of Renly Baratheon?” Jaime sounds a bit glib.

“I’d have thought it an honor.”

“You’ve never told me, wench, what your Father said about his only daughter riding off.”

“Father didn’t condone it.” The path makes a sharp turn, and Brienne knows they’re close; another quarter hour and they’ll be able to see Evenfall. _And my Father._ “But he didn’t forbid it, either. He told me I could make my own choices.”

Jaime’s silent, so unlike him, for a long moment. “Did you want him to stop you?”

“No,” Brienne doesn’t glance back. “I wanted him to...voice an opinion. To react to what I wanted, even if he sought to stop me. If he asked me to stay, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“If only I could’ve lent you Tywin Lannister. If he bothered to listen to me at all, he _always_ had an opinion--usually a disapproving one--of what I wanted.”

* * *

Pod takes their horses outside Evenfall’s gates and goes where the guard, dressed in the azure and rose of Brienne’s house, tells him to go.

Selwyn Tarth looks so much like his daughter that Jaime _nearly_ starts laughing when he greets them outside the entrance to Evenfall’s keep. He has Brienne’s blue eyes; although, Jaime doesn’t find them _nearly_ as arresting when they’re set under Selwyn’s bushy eyebrows. Father and daughter share the same broad-shouldered stature, but more than that, they have the same atmosphere.

The level gaze Selwyn is giving them transports Jaime back to the dungeon at Riverrun and his conversation with Catelyn Stark. Brienne’s version of the expression had been _much_ more judgmental and withering, but it’s easy to imagine Selwyn’s shifting to that when he gets to Jaime.

 _That_ makes Jaime want to laugh, too. It’s something he does when he’s anxious, and it’s rarely the course that leads to the best outcome. It’s momentarily gratifying, and sometimes that’s all Jaime wants. He feels a need to make a good impression--Selwyn Tarth is his goodfather, or at least he _thinks_ he is. 

_And he will be._

On their four-day journey, sometime between Brienne holding his hair out of his face as he retched into a bucket and the bunk being so small they _had_ to sleep back-to-back, Jaime decided he would make the ruse real. He never imagined himself a husband, but pretending with Brienne has been the best month he can recall. Except for fucking, it had everything he could wish for.

 _Maybe we’ll get there someday, too._ Jaime can’t linger on _that_ thought for too long.

Of course, all of this is contingent on Brienne’s willingness to wed the likes of him. Jaime can’t dwell on her potential refusal just now. What Jaime _really_ wants, now that they’re off that cursed ship, is a bath and a meal, but if Selwyn wants them to go straight to wherever Evenfall’s sept is, Jaime will consent. 

Brienne steps forward to greet her father, but Jaime feels like his feet are anchored to the stone. He knows little about her relationship with her father, but Brienne isn’t rushing to embrace him with tears in her eyes. 

_It’s a little difficult to imagine the wench acting like that._

“Hello, Father.” She takes a step or two forward. “I’ve returned.”

Selwyn still looks like a mountain, but Jaime _swears_ the corner of his mouth quirks up just the slightest bit. “I can see that by the fact that you’re here. Our new queen wrote to me of your coming. She also informed me my daughter wed the Kingslayer.”

Jaime prefers being called Kingslayer to his face than whispered behind his back. Fitting that Brienne _and_ her father are amongst the handful of people to ever do so. Selwyn’s doesn’t have the bite that Brienne’s did so long ago.

“It was…” Brienne starts, “It was remiss of me not to write and ask for your blessing.”

Now, Selwyn _does_ laugh--it sounds like it rumbles up from deep in the earth. Brienne’s laugh is always quiet, like she thinks she shouldn’t be doing it. “Brienne, we were in the middle of a war. The letter might’ve never reached me.”

“Nevertheless, I should’ve tried. It was your choice to make for me.”

Selwyn’s second laugh is much more restrained, “I think we’ve seen how well those attempts worked. After the last, you ran off to pledge yourself to Renly Baratheon. I should’ve found you a king to serve instead of a husband.”

Jaime _really_ can’t tell Selwyn’s intent behind the words; he seems congenial, but the words are ones that will hurt Brienne.

“You didn’t stop me, Father,” Brienne replies, “You didn’t say _anything.”_

“I never could, Brienne; you’re as stubborn as an ox. You dreamed of being a knight, not a bride, so I let you go on your own path.”

 _That’s not true._ Jaime knows the duality within Brienne. She dreams of valor but shuts off the parts of her others have made her deem unfit for womanhood.

“My lord,” Jaime interrupts, despite having _no_ idea how Selwyn wants to be addressed. “If I may be permitted to interject, your daughter is as fine a lady wife as anyone could ask for.”

Brienne pivots on her feet and looks back to him, eyes wide in surprise, “Jaime--”

 _It’s true, wench._ It doesn’t change that the sincerity of the expression feels like he’s trying to speak with rocks in his mouth. “Truly, I’m a poor husband by comparison. Brienne is as loyal and kind as any man could wish. She’s saved me in a dozen ways, usually from myself.”

Her expression is still soft awe, like Jaime is talking about some _other_ wench who dragged him up from despair and helped him reforge himself. When she turns back to her father, she says, “J-Jaime is a fine husband, too, Father. I know his reputation isn’t--I mean, when you know him, you’ll approve.”

“We shall see.”

Brienne defended Jaime before much more formidable enemies--Stoneheart, the Starks, the Dragon Queen--but none feel quite as sweet an ache as hearing her extoll the best she sees in him to her father.

* * *

They eat an early evening meal, the first Jaime’s had an appetite for in days. 

His stomach rumbles like a stampede, and he has to stop himself from shoveling all the food into his mouth at an uncouth pace. The fish is flakey and cuts with a fork, and none of the side dishes require Brienne’s assistance. If he’s trying to make a good impression in front of his goodfather, Brienne cutting his food might _not_ be the best approach. While certainly not an intentional courtesy, Jaime appreciates the fortuitousness.

It’s the only fortuitous aspect because the rest of the meal is _excruciatingly_ awkward, and that assessment includes every Lannister family meal Jaime’s attended. Selwyn asks Brienne about the five years she’s been away, and Jaime comes to realize how shockingly _little_ Selwyn knows about his daughter’s comings and goings. 

Jaime’s seen Brienne write letters home over the years, but the contents never seemed like his business. Her father knows of major events that _everyone_ across Westeros knows, but when he asks about what happened after Brienne’s service to Catelyn Stark, Brienne’s answers turn vague.

“Lady Catelyn tasked me with escorting Ser Jaime to King’s Landing,” she says.

“I know you made it because you wrote saying you arrived safely,” Selwyn replies, “but I _always_ got the impression you were leaving out key details.”

Brienne’s looking down at the fish bones on her plate, “I didn’t want to worry you, Father.”

“Brienne,” Selwyn gives an exasperated sigh, “I worried _every_ godsdamned day from the moment you sailed to Storm’s End.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Can you tell me all of it, Brienne?” 

“What have you heard?” Jaime looks at Brienne’s ruined cheek, and the fading noose marks around her neck. _Probably that I endangered your daughter over and over._

“Rumors on the wind. That Brienne of Tarth slayed a monster in the Riverlands, that she found Sansa Stark and brought her home and fought wights and dragons.”

Brienne blushes and looks to Jaime like he’s going to tell her father none of those deeds are true. _My brave, stubborn wench._ Instead, he shrugs and says, “You _did_ do all those things.”

Selwyn asks questions, and enough time passes that the servers clear their plates and bring fresh wine and dessert. Brienne sips her drink and downplays all her achievements. 

Eventually, Selwyn reaches out and cups Brienne’s face, “How did this happen?”

“When I was searching for Lady Sansa,” she shies from his touch, “I was b-bit, and then captured by Lady Stoneheart. I--”

Jaime only heard the whole story once, when he rode with her from Pennytree and demanded the truth. They didn’t talk about it again, but he knew nightmares plagued her for a _long_ time. He still dreams about Aerys and wildfire sometimes, and that was _decades_ ago.

“Leave that,” Jaime hopes it sounds like a suggestion rather than a command.

Selwyn nods, “Were you alone?”

Brienne shakes her head, “Podrick, my squire, was there, and a hedge knight named Hyle Hunt.”

 _Hyle Cunt._ Jaime _burned_ with jealousy at Hyle’s attempts to get Brienne to wed him, but he didn’t understand the _why_ of it at all. What a fool he’d been.

“But not _you,_ Ser Jaime?”

“I sent Brienne to search for Lady Sansa in my stead.” He knows his reasoning is weak, but he continues. “I thought my place was in King’s Landing.”

“You tasked my daughter, barely a woman grown herself, with finding a girl who’d been missing for _months_ in the wartorn Riverlands? I’m lucky she’s alive to tell me the tale.”

“Father, I agreed--”

He’s in awe of Brienne and has been since the beginning, even if the feeling was begrudging at first. That awe, that confidence, led him to think she could rise to any task.

“It was...remiss of me to send her alone. I thought I knew my place, but I’ve often been on the wrong side of things.”

“I would’ve given my _life_ in search of Sansa,” Brienne scowls and raises her voice. “I knew the risks.”

Selwyn looks at Jaime. “And where is your place now, Ser Jaime?”

“It’s with Brienne, wherever she goes.”

* * *

Brienne excuses herself and practically _runs_ from the room. Jaime watches her retreating form, shoulders set in a tense line, until she’s gone from view. _All of that can’t have been easy to talk about._

Everything Jaime knew about Brienne was hard-won or offered in moments where her defenses were lowered. He felt pride about both because it meant he’d earned the information. It also feels a bit lopsided at times because she knows everything about him, even things he wishes she didn’t.

Selwyn watches his daughter leave and lets out a breath that sounds exhausted. 

“My lord,” Jaime makes to stand, “I should go after her.”

“Ser Jaime--a moment, please, if you would.”

Jaime has no reason to refuse, and it probably won’t win him any favors, so he returns to the chair. “Certainly.”

“I…” It’s odd to see someone as imposing as Selwyn struggling for the right words. “It’s been just Brienne and me since she was a girl. As you can probably tell, I know little about what to do with her.”

Jaime feels quite diplomatic when he replies, “Seven knows how many times I’ve tried to guess what would please her and failed, especially in the beginning.”

“Was she happy to be sent to look for Sansa?” 

“I trusted her with a quest fit for a knight,” Jaime’s tone is wry.

Selwyn chuckles, _“Of course.”_

“I’m just glad the quest didn’t kill her--she doesn’t know when to give up. She should’ve left me to die so many times.”

“You’re closer to her than me, Ser Jaime; tell me what my daughter won’t.”

Jaime doesn’t know what Selwyn wants to hear. _I love her,_ Jaime considers saying, but to tell Brienne’s father before he speaks the words to her doesn’t feel right. “Brienne is loved,” he says instead. “Queen Daenerys asked Brienne to serve on her Queensguard. She has the loyalty of Jon Snow and half the bannermen in the North. Little girls want to learn how to wield a sword when they meet her.”

Selwyn’s small smile is so much like his daughter’s. “Since she was tall enough to hold a sword, it was her favorite thing. I wanted there to be someone to care for her when I’m dead and gone, so I tried to make sure she could manage as the wife of a lord, but I fear I just hurt her spirit.”

“Her spirit endures; Brienne is as fine a knight as ever lived.” _Much finer than I’ve ever been._

Selwyn considers him for a moment, “Brienne refused the queen’s offer, didn’t she?”

“Brienne told me she wanted to come home--to see Tarth and you.”

“I’d like to...know her better.”

“I think Brienne would like that, too.” Jaime is surprised to find himself as the bridge between Selwyn and Brienne, but he will do his best.

“The Queen was _quite_ insistent on getting the two of you in the sept as quickly as possible. I can arrange it for a sennight from now.

Jaime nods, trying not to let the nervous fit that overcomes him at the idea shine through, and bades Selwyn good night.

They’re staying in Brienne’s childhood bedroom, which looks like she walked out of it as a girl and nothing had been touched since. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to Jaime, and glances over her shoulder when he enters.

“My father kept you,” she says, “I’m sorry if he said anything awkward.”

“No. He only asked after you because he cares.”

Brienne’s shoulders hunch. The gesture is like she’s closing a heavy wooden door. If Jaime’s fast enough, he can catch it with his foot and slide through just before it latches. 

“His care hasn’t always felt like it.”

Jaime rounds the bed and sits next to her; they’ve had so many conversations like this in the last few weeks. “Lord Selwyn is trying. Brienne, you _wanted_ to come here, so you must be willing to try, too.”

She relaxes a bit, “I am. Just...all the talking was tiring.”

“The tale makes you sound _very_ dashing, my lady.”

The blush overtakes Brienne in the same pattern every time, creeping over her freckles until even her ears are red. “I just tried to help as best I could.”

 _And that’s why you’re so rare._ Instead, Jaime says, “Your father wants us to wed in a sennight. Apparently the queen was _quite_ insistent that it be expedited.” 

Jaime is half-convinced the queen didn’t believe Brienne’s tale.

Brienne turns to Jaime, eyes wide in shock. “A _week?_ What are we going to do? I thought we’d have more time to come up with a plan.”

“And what, pray tell, kind of plan did you mean to come up with?”

“I--I don’t know,” she sounds helpless. “You could leave me and run to Essos. There’s a port on the eastern side of Tarth, so we could--”

The words are as if Brienne punched him. “Wench,” he can’t help but start laughing; it makes her expression turn stormy. “Your plans are usually well thought out, but _what?”_

“I can’t think of anything else!”

“Do you _know_ how that would make you look?” Jaime raises his voice. “I’ve only just proven that I can keep faith. What would people say, about _both_ of us, if your husband abandoned you?”

“You’d be free of me,” Brienne snaps, “I can handle their words. I’ve heard worse, and no one believes we’d be together anyway.”

 _It seems to make sense to everyone but us._ Her words knock the wind out of Jaime’s growing anger. “Well, maybe _I_ can’t handle it. Did you think of what I might want when you came up with that stupid plan?”

 _“Yes!”_ Brienne shouts in his face. “I’m _always_ thinking of you.”

“You say that,” Jaime lowers his voice and keeps it as even as he can. “If it’s true, then listen to me and don’t guess at my intentions.”

“...Fine.”

“I’m not running to _fucking_ Essos. If you never set foot off Tarth again until you draw your last breath, then neither will I.” 

“Jaime, that means that we’ll really, _truly_ be--”

Brienne’s lips part in shock, and she lets out a tiny exhale. Jaime’s never wanted to kiss her as badly as he does right now. Instead, he reaches across with his left hand to grasp hers and bring it to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

 _Courtly,_ Jaime thinks, _treat her like a lady._ He’ll treat her as she deserves, and hope that what he wants will come from it. Loving her is easy, she just needs to see that he does.

“Our fates have been bound for a long time.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne wakes up with Jaime’s right arm flung over her middle and his body pressed along hers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved reading all your comments on the last chapter! 
> 
> Enjoy this week's offering of more tropes and things getting a _bit_ spicy. You'll notice the chapter count is now at seven because I am a filthy liar. The first draft is complete, now, so you can expect regular Sunday updates.

Brienne wakes up with Jaime’s right arm flung over her middle and his body pressed along hers. 

For the last month, they shared the bed sleeping back-to-back, but Jaime never touched her. Sometimes, she’ll wake with his back pressed against hers, but it never seemed intentional. 

It’s been a long time since Brienne doubted that Jaime cared about her; he showed his consideration and affection edged with sarcasm, but it _was_ there. _He cares about doing the right thing, but that doesn’t mean he wants me._ That’s why Jaime will stay with her, even if it means marrying her. 

It’s selfish, and it always has been, how much Brienne yearns for him; she wants Jaime to wake up and bury his nose in her hair, or to nudge her onto her back and kiss her. She’s not beautiful, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t long for the same things everyone longs for.

Sometimes, Brienne feels like Jaime doesn’t mind looking at her.

She was anxious to return home, but waking up in her girlhood room in Jaime’s arms, after he said he’d stay with her, feels as close as Brienne’s ever been to content. _I can be happy with this, and I won’t wish for more._

Jaime’s still asleep; she learned the cadence of his breathing in slumber long ago. He doesn’t _quite_ snore, but Brienne doesn’t know a more accurate word for the sound. His arm worked its way under her sleeping shirt at some point, so the stump rests against her stomach. Jaime might pull away if he wakes; Brienne stays as still as she can, hoping to make the moment last.

Which means, of course, that only a few minutes pass before Jaime’s breathing changes.

“Brienne?” Her name has _never_ sounded so soft and intimate. _“Oh--”_

Jaime goes to pull his arm away--whether because it’s the one that ends in no hand or because he doesn’t wish to touch her, Brienne can’t say. She grabs his forearm to halt the movement. Brienne wants to attribute it to a sudden boldness, but it’s an impulsive choice to press Jaime’s arm back against her.

She opens her mouth to say something, _anything,_ but Jaime starts chuckling before she can muster any words. It’s warmer than his usual. 

“If you want to be held so badly, wench, all you have to do is ask.”

Brienne’s face burns scarlet, and she’s thankful Jaime is behind her and can’t see. “Y-you’ve never done that before.”

Jaime’s grin is evident in his tone. _“Surely_ I have. Maybe journeying to Winterfell when we were freezing on the road? I don’t recall you sharing body heat with young Pod.”

“I--that’s _different.”_

She felt safer with her back against Jaime’s on all those long, cold nights because he’d taken up the quest with her. If he held her, Brienne doesn’t remember it.

“Although,” Jaime does what Brienne longed for and presses his face into her hair, “Mayhaps the lady would prefer the arm _with_ a hand?”

Brienne’s never _, ever_ been bothered by the injury; she only laments the pain and loss it’s caused him. She could tell him that, but she’s not certain that will help. Jaime often sees care as pity, especially when he’s in a position to refuse or decry its sincerity.

Instead, Brienne sounds as contrary as possible when she says, “Perhaps _you’d_ prefer your arm around someone more beautiful?”

There’s a tiny voice in her that whispers _what if Jaime says ‘yes’?_ It’s not nearly as loud as years past.

She hopes Jaime will laugh, and she’s rewarded with a long period of chuckling. “Are you trying to prove a point by turning my insecurity back on me?”

“Maybe.”

“A fair point,” he nuzzles his nose against her; Brienne tries not to shiver at the contact. “What you just said sounds _quite_ foolish; I suppose what I said sounded much the same.”

“Utterly.”

Jaime shifts onto one elbow and nudges Brienne onto her back. There’s a scant few inches between their faces and every darker fleck of green in his eyes is noticeable. Jaime thinks his life is waning, but all Brienne sees is potential. He commanded men with skill and earned their trust. He cares deeply, and shows it, when the conditions allow.

Those qualities, of course, say _nothing_ about the part of Jaime that’s currently plaguing her--how _handsome_ he is. A bit of grey in his beard or lines at the corners of his eyes don’t matter. It’s another element he thinks is declining, and Brienne doesn’t have the forwardness to correct him. 

Especially when he’s giving her that cocksure, boyish smile.

“The next question is if _you_ believe that I’m not thinking what you suggested.”

It’s hard to scowl when Jaime’s so perfect and _so_ close. “If you wanted to insult me, I believe you’d do it to my face.”

“I’ve never been called an honest man so rudely. Yet, you claimed me as your lord husband.”

“...Don’t make me regret it.”

“I’m _really_ trying not to.” Jaime’s expression is so tender and open that Brienne feels like the wind has been knocked out of her. 

No one has _ever_ looked at her like that.

Then, Jaime wriggles atop her in a way that reminds Brienne of an eel in both the motion and how jolting it feels. She freezes entirely until Jaime starts _tickling_ her. He reaches under the blankets and goes for the soft spot on her side. Even one-handed, Jaime is _startlingly_ efficient, and Brienne starts giggling helplessly. She’s stronger than him, so eventually she throws her weight behind the motion and pushes him onto his back. Jaime flails underneath her, and Brienne forgets propriety entirely in her retaliation of tickling him under his arms.

 _“Brienne--”_ Jaime practically squawks.

Before he can finish his sentence, there’s a sharp knock on her door and a voice calls out, “Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime, I’ve brought your morning meal.”

Locking the door of her girlhood room didn’t occur to Brienne, but it _might_ from now on. The servant peaks her head in and sees the two of them, Brienne half atop Jaime. She surely heard them giggling like children.

They both freeze. Brenne’s face feels like the time she fell asleep on the beach as a girl and _every_ exposed patch of skin peeled. Jaime looks…

Well, Jaime looks _caught._

His entire body goes rigid, and the easy laughter dies like a candle snuffed out. Brienne panics, too. Suddenly, she’s sixteen and Ronnet Connington is tossing a rose at her feet. She’s at Renly’s camp being courted with gifts and mocked when her back was turned.

_It’s me; it’s always me._

After a few heartbeats, Brienne changes her mind. They’ve been _caught,_ and Jaime is thinking of some way to talk them out of it because that’s always been what’s needed. _A lifetime spent being a secret._

There’s a dull thud on the table near the door. “I’ll just...leave this here, my lady, ser. Just shout when you’re through.”

The door shuts.

“Jaime,” Brienne reaches up and cups his cheek, “I, um, we’re _supposed_ to be together, or at least they _think_ we are. No one will think it odd.”

_Well, maybe the giggling._

He takes a deep breath and leans into her hand. “You’re correct again. I suppose I spent too long harboring a secret.”

“Would...you like to eat?”

“I would. All this exercise has made me _ravenous.”_

* * *

Evenfall isn’t the largest castle in Westeros by far, but it still takes Brienne the entire morning to give Jaime a proper tour because they keep getting stopped by people for well-wishes and introductions.

Brienne recognizes most who stop them--servants and lords and people visiting from the nearby village. As a girl, Brienne stumbled over all these rote interactions and waited for a glare or a sneer. She handles them much better, now, asking after people’s aging relatives or children or livelihoods. They seem pleased to see her, and their easy smiles make Brienne feel more like it was right to come back.

Most people seem genuinely taken aback by Jaime. Brienne’s _certain_ everyone expects the famed Kingslayer to be mocking at best and disdainful and disinterested at worst. The tenure of Jaime’s bad attitude was long, and people here only knew his reputation as the arrogant son of Tywin Lannister.

Jaime makes smalltalk and pleasantries effortlessly, and half the women they pass are blushing and twittering by the time they part. 

“You’re putting a lot of effort in for the washing women, Jaime,” Brienne whispers as they ascend a stairway leading to a courtyard.

“They wash my clothes,” Jaime replies, “And being kind to smallfolk makes them loyal.”

“I didn’t say it was bad. My father knows them all by name.”

“Tarth’s people seem content.”

“They are,” Brienne gives a small smile, “My father doesn’t try and woo them all, though.”

The expression on Jaime’s face could _almost_ pass for embarrassment. “You’re the heir to the Evenstar. I don’t want them to think you married some ass from the Westerlands.”

Everytime Jaime mentions marriage, Brienne’s heart does a somersault and races away afterwards. _He doesn’t want to make me look bad._ She never imagined _anyone_ who would encourage her to be herself _and_ not want to marry her for Tarth. Brienne doesn’t need Jaime’s love--she yearns for it, but this is _more_ than enough. She won’t be selfish, especially not when she half-dragged Jaime here.

They’re outside, now, and people are milling about. Brienne lowers her voice, “Just be kind to them, and you’ll win their favor.” 

“One of many lessons my father neglected to impart upon me.”

* * *

Brienne’s father summons her after she returns with Jaime and Pod from the village outside Evenfall’s walls. Jaime asks if he should accompany her, but Brienne shakes her head and tells him to keep Pod out of trouble.

The grin Jaime gives her doesn’t bode well. Pod idolized Jaime since they rescued Sansa from the Vale, and Jaime keeps teaching her squire inappropriate things.

The boy sent to fetch her takes Brienne to the armory. It’s an odd place to find her father; he’s passable with a sword, but despite his stature, it’s never where he chose to put his effort. Unlike Brienne, who used to dodge her lessons and sneak inside to pick up a sword that was much too heavy to lift.

When she enters, Selwyn is holding a practice sword and frowning at it.

Brienne stares, too, until her father interrupts by saying her name.

“Father, you asked for me?”

“I did.” He places the sword back into the rack amongst the others the boys from the village use. “Do you remember how you used to sneak in here?”

“Of course,” Brienne looks at her dusty boots. “Septa Roelle never let me, so I’d sneak out from embroidery lessons.”

He chuckles, “You were a hard daughter to contain.”

“I wasn’t,” Brienne’s grown much bolder since she left Tarth, “You just didn’t try to understand me.”

“I let Ser Goodwin teach you the sword even though _everyone_ advised against it.”

“Only _after_ I broke that stable boy’s nose with a tourney sword.”

“If you were determined,” he replies, “I thought you should do it properly.”

“And I have.”

Selwyn’s expression softens, “Has it brought you happiness? I’ve made many missteps, Brienne, but that’s all I’ve ever wished for you.”

“Not that I was a son?” She takes a deep breath. “Or a better daughter?”

“I wish all my children lived but not for you to be any different.”

“I--I thought, for a long time, that--” Brienne shakes her head. “It hasn’t always been easy, but I have purpose.”

“That’s not happiness.”

“It’s part of it, though, isn’t it?”

Brienne lets her father embrace her, and she returns it. They didn’t even do this when she sailed for Storm’s End; he just stood at Evenfall’s gate and watched Brienne make her choice.

* * *

It bothers Jaime, _significantly,_ that Podrick only has to tilt his chin up a fraction to make eye contact. When he meant Brienne’s squire, the boy tripped over his own feet and couldn’t string a sentence together, let alone wield a sword.

_He’s just the kind of squire Brienne would take._

Brienne was willing to die for his sake, but she wouldn’t leave Pod and Hyle Hunt to the same fate. Jaime didn’t give a _fuck_ about Hyle, but Pod didn’t deserve punished for his sins. If the boy moves just right, the scars from the noose are still visible. Brienne has them, too--he thinks of touching them sometimes and apologizing, but he isn’t sure how.

Selwyn calls for Brienne, so Pod and Jaime are left to wander the village. It’s summer, and Tarth seems to be positively _bursting_ with flowers. 

_Would Brienne like any?_ Women like flowers--Cersei didn’t, but she only took pleasure in what she could use. 

“She doesn’t like roses, Ser Jaime,” Pod says from over his shoulder.

“I know what flowers my lady wife doesn’t prefer.” Jaime sounds as haughty to deter Pod from continuing. It probably won’t work because the boy seems to be taking his disposition after Jaime.

“Do you?”

“Actually, I don’t.” When Jaime looks back, Pod is grinning. It looks too much like an expression he’d wear. “Do you want to look smug or help?”

“Hydrangeas.”

 _“How_ do you know that?”

“My lady mentioned it once.”

Jaime’s impressed but still scowls, “Turn those skills on a maiden of your own, Pod.”

Because he’s fifteen and still _very_ much a boy, Pod blushes. “I know you and Lady Brienne aren’t _really_ \--but if you’re here, do you--do you intend to?”

“I do, Pod.”

The boy beams.

Jaime buys Pod an ale and one himself, and they drink them overlooking the sea.

They return to Evenfall with blue hydrangeas.

* * *

The second morning finds their positions reversed.

Jaime has a half-awake memory of, sometime after dawn, tugging Brienne’s right arm over him like a crotchety old woman might a blanket. He must’ve wanted it quite badly because he had to reach over himself with his left hand to find hers. 

In a dream, he’d have two sets of fingers and find the task no trouble; it’s a dream he long ago stopped having. Even the phantom sensations of gripping a sword again don’t linger as they once did. Besides, Brienne’s hand is cupped over his stump, and that’s painfully sweet in its own way.

 _My protector, even in slumber._ Jaime wants her love, her desire, but he can live on what she gives him. It’s much more than he’s earned. 

Jaime sleeps easily again, content in the notion that there’s no pressing threat or need to rise. When he wakes a second time, Brienne is gone from the bed and seated at the small table by the window. The crock with the hydrangeas is next to her. Jaime’s one-handed arrangement was poor, but Brienne smiled regardless.

Bleary-eyed, Jaime sits up and stretches before scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. “When was food brought?”

“Not more than a quarter hour ago,” she replies, “You slept through it.”

“I’m old,” Jaime stands up and straightens his clothes before joining Brienne at the table. “And I spent many years not sleeping _nearly_ enough.”

It also meant that he didn’t jump out of his skin when someone saw him with Brienne. _Better than yesterday morning._

Brienne pushes a bowl of oatmeal at him. Even taking the time to eat breakfast feels decadent. Kingsguard didn’t stop to eat breakfast, nor did anyone during a war. As Jaime dumps honey into his bowl, he tries to appreciate that such a moment even exists. Brienne doesn’t demand smalltalk, so they eat in silence until a thought pops into Jaime’s mind.

“Is there a place to swim here?”

“...We’re on an island, Jaime,” Brienne’s tone is dry, “That means there’s water on all sides.”

Jaime raises his right arm and waves it over the table; Brienne raises her pale brows. _“Fine._ Is there a place to swim where a one-handed man might not get ripped away by a current to a watery grave?”

“...Do you know _how_ to swim?”

 _“Do I know how?”_ he scoffs. “Of course, but I haven’t tried one-handed.”

“There’s a place I liked as a girl. We’d get there by mid morning if we set out soon.”

* * *

Brienne takes them to a tiny cove surrounded by rocks and a sandy beach. The only entrance to the space is past an outcropping of rocks Jaime wouldn’t try to navigate a horse beyond, even though theirs manage it easily.

The water is a perfect reflection of the summer sky and tranquil enough that the puffy clouds are mirrored. It’s such a delightful sight, simple and untouched, that Jaime starts laughing. He forgets entirely his worry of drowning, casts aside his boots and shirt, and rushes into the water.

When he looks back, water up to his waist, Brienne has her arms crossed and _might_ be scowling slightly. She’s secured their horses to the low-hanging branch of a tree and has their belongings at her feet.

“Why do you look so sour?” 

“I don’t,” she calls back.

“I’d know that expression from a league away, wench!”

Brienne sits to take off her boots and rolls up her pants, revealing freckled calves. Then, she walks closer and stops where the water laps at the sand.

“I thought you were worried about drowning.”

“I am,” Jaime shouts back; the water is up to his collarbones. “So I suggest you come and keep me company, unless you want to be made a widow.”

“We’re not--” Jaime sees her shut her eyes and take a deep breath. “Stay where you can touch.”

 _She must find me very trying_.

What Jaime _wants_ is for Brienne to take off her clothes. He’s in a _much_ better state to appreciate her than last time, nor will he be concerned by any reaction his body may have. He could laugh for days at his past obliviousness.

Brienne remains clothed as she wades into the water; it’s disappointing and unsurprising. She’s much too dour and insecure to _ever._ Jaime wants to help on both of those fronts but hasn’t any idea how. By the time she reaches him, her scowl has lessened to the barest crease between her brows.

Jaime clicks his tongue, “Now your clothes are all wet.”

“They’ll dry.”

“If you’d take them off, they wouldn’t have had any need to.”

The water is warm, but not as warm as the air, so Brienne shivers and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not doing that.”

“Suit yourself.”

There’s no place where Jaime’s feet don’t touch, and the water is so clear he can see the sandy bottom. Brienne watches him paddle around like he’s a child getting his first swimming lesson. The actual swimming doesn’t go as poorly as Jaime assumed. It’s not like he had grand plans to be a sailor anyway. He used to swim in the Sunset Sea with Cersei as a boy. She would laugh and try and dunk his head under the waves. The memory is bittersweet, but it gives Jaime an idea. 

Brienne seems lost in thought, staring out at the horizon. Jaime makes a wide arc around her, certain Brienne will notice his movements. Her reflexes are as good as his were in his prime. She would tell him he’s _still_ in his prime; perhaps he’ll believe her if this childish plan is successful.

Jaime lunges forward through the water and wraps his arms around Brienne’s shoulders. Ideally, he’d lock his hands together, but since that isn’t possible, he focuses on using his weight to try and dunk her under the water. Brienne gives an indignant yelp, the most startled Jaime’s ever heard.

“Got you!” he yells _just_ before Brienne bends her knees to submerge them both.

It’s the first time Jaime’s gone under. Brienne pushes away from him and he floats, weightless, for a moment before breaking through the surface. She’s shoving her wet hair out of her face and glaring daggers at him.

 _“What_ was that for?”

 _“Fun._ It’s in short supply, but I’m sure you’ve experienced it once or twice.”

“I know what fun is.”

The water is up to Brienne’s chest; it’s the first glimpse Jaime’s had where she isn’t crossing her arms. Wet, the beige linen of her shirt hides _nothing._ The sodden fabric clings to the slight swell of her breasts and the muscles of her stomach; Jaime can even make out the darker shade of her nipples.

Jaime really, _really_ should avert his gaze, but Brienne’s blue eyes are boring holes into him; he never could back down from a challenge. 

“Brienne--” he tries not to sound choked, but the woman he loves is a yard from him and might as well be naked. Jaime should tell her, let her turn away and keep her modesty. A dark voice, one he wants to listen to, whispers _you’ve seen it all already._

“...Your shirt is _quite_ transparent.”

Her eyes go wide, and she looks down at herself. Brienne raises her arms, surely to cross them again, but Jaime takes a step forward to grab her hand.

“W-what are you--?”

“You don’t have to--”

Brienne doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t move away. Jaime feels like he’s approaching a skittish horse. She doesn’t seem angry but wary and mistrustful, which is infinitely worse. He thought he earned a space inside that wall long ago. It hurts to realize he hasn’t. Jaime steps in until they’re nearly flush against one another. 

“What is it that you want, Jaime?”

 _So many things._ Sometimes, it’s all Jaime thinks about when he looks at Brienne--the desire for her to lower that last barrier. There’s so many ways he would touch her, so many things he longs to tell her. 

“I want you to trust me as I trust you.”

“I do.”

Jaime shakes his head, “When I’m at my worst, you’re at your best. It hasn’t always been by choice, but I’ve been more vulnerable with you than anyone else.”

“I only tried to do what was right.”

“Don’t frame it like that,” Jaime drops his left hand and shuts his eyes. “You’re _good,_ better than I could ever aspire to be.”

“I’m not.” 

Jaime expects the deflection, but it still angers him. Barbs and taunts fly from his tongue, but his heart has to be dragged in chains to see the light of day. Brienne is the last person who would mock his sentiment, and yet, that doesn’t loosen the words.

“I don’t want your gentleness bound in your sense of duty; I want it to be because it’s me.” _I want you to love me._

Brienne’s entire countenance softens, “Jaime, I--I’m sorry if I made you feel--I’m _not_ good at this.”

“And I am?” Jaime mocks himself with his laugh. “I was cruel and combative when we met.”

“I was little better.”

“That’s not my point.” Jaime wraps his arms around her shoulders and whispers into her ear. “You’re like a mountain, Brienne, and I’m a one-handed old man who’s as close as he can get to the summit.”

“...What?” Even confused, Brienne returns his embrace, hand on the bare skin of his back. Jaime basks in her touch. 

“I’m _trying_ to care for you, but you’re quite set against me doing so. It won’t be perfect, but I’ve learned from you, and the task won’t want for my effort.”

When Jaime pulls back, Brienne looks the closest to tears since Lady Stoneheart. Her tears cause a blind panic in him from their sheer rarity. They also make her eyes impossibly blue. He decides to kiss her ruined cheek--another courtly gesture, but Brienne angles her head and catches his lips instead. They stay frozen for several heartbeats, until she relaxes a fraction more and moves her lips against his. 

The invitation of the gesture screams in Jaime’s ears.

Jaime’s only known a kiss to be a fight. Brienne is stubborn as a mule and no stranger to combat; her kiss could be like that, but it isn’t. Instead, It’s almost impossibly tender. There’s no want for eagerness, but Brienne’s nervousness shows in the tremor of her hand at his back and the unpracticed movements she answers him with. 

In the space of a breath, Jaime angles his head and slides his tongue against hers. She tastes like saltwater, and he can’t get enough of dragging his teeth over her bottom lip and hearing her breath hitch. The way Brienne’s breasts are pressed against his chest is _maddening,_ so he slides his hand from her waist upward until he traces the outer curve with his fingertips. 

Brienne’s answering sigh is both surrender and invitation. 

He's never been demure in the throes of passion, so Jaime anchors his right arm around her neck. Brienne teeters in surprise, but the buoyancy from the water and her strong arms hold Jaime up. On impulse, he wraps his legs around her; Brienne makes a startled noise against his lips, but doesn’t stop kissing him. Her hands slide down to his backside, and she hauls him closer against her. The ache the motion creates in him is palpable and _surely_ noticeable.

 _“Brienne.”_ Jaime means to tease for her brash display, but he just sounds needy. It makes her break the kiss.

“W-what?” She’s breathing hard, and her cheeks are as red as Jaime’s ever seen. 

_A maiden, despite all else._

“You let me kiss you.” A grin threatens to split Jaime’s face in two. “Has anyone else had the honor?”

Brienne looks disbelieving at the word _honor._ “At Renly’s camp.” If possible, she turns _more_ crimson. “I pushed him into a cookfire.” 

Jaime’s laugh echoes across the water, “I hazard I’m a _touch_ more welcome. You didn’t try and drown me this time. Do you remember that one?”

Her glare makes Jaime laugh all the harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Jaime tried to climb her like a tree. I mean, don't we _all_ want to?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was just a kiss. A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything._
> 
> Brienne repeats that to herself while watching Jaime paddle in circles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful comments!
> 
> This chapter, things get even spicier. 🌶️🌶️🌶️

_It was just a kiss. A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything._

Brienne repeats that to herself while watching Jaime paddle in circles. He’s not a strong swimmer, and she doesn’t think having both hands would make much difference. Between that and the seasickness, maybe Jaime _will_ be condemned to stay on Tarth for the rest of his days.

_Condemned to me._

Jaime should resent it, but he’s laughing, water droplets clinging to his golden hair. He’s brighter than the sun, and everywhere they touched lingers like a sunburn. Brienne repeats _it was just a kiss_ as they eat a late lunch together, side-by-side on the beach, and again as they ride back to Evenfall in the afternoon. 

By evening, Brienne thinks she has a handle on her emotions--she can manage dinner with her father without her face bursting into flames when Jaime grins at her.

Dinner is a bit tense, but the wedge between her father and her is softening. Selwyn is a stubborn man, and Brienne inherited the disposition. What she doesn’t have is the depth of his stoicism. She isn’t angry, so the awkwardness will fade. _Maybe things will be better than before I left._

Until that day, there’s Jaime’s attempt at helping. He talks through their meal, telling stories or asking Selwyn questions about the running of Tarth--the marble mines, crops, fishing, trading--Jaime touches on them all.

“Your father raised you to be a Lord, Ser Jaime,” Selwyn tells him somewhere between courses.

“Much to my displeasure,” Jaime laughs. “I’m amazed I didn’t forget it all the instant I became a knight. I was always more interested in glory than crops or taxes.”

Her father looks at her, “I was remiss in not giving Brienne more education on the subject.”

“I’m a daughter,” Brienne answers, “The man I wed would be the lord of Tarth, and I’d bear him sons. There was no need to teach me.”

_The sword and my behavior was enough dishonor._

“As I said,” Selwyn repeats, “It’s a mistake I intend to remedy, if you’ve the willingness to learn.”

“Learn?”

Jaime looks between them, “Brienne is your heir; she should know what she’ll need to do when you’re gone. And unlike me, Brienne is dutiful.”

Her father turns his gaze to Jaime, “The betrothals I made for my daughter were unworthy of her. They all saw Tarth as a prize to be won if they could suffer Brienne as their bride.”

It’s the truth, but it stings. Selwyn has never been one to spare his words for anyone’s comfort, even hers. Brienne is too proud and too accustomed to react, so she looks at her hands in her lap. As a girl, if she came to him crying, he would tell her that words were wind and couldn’t hurt her. Brienne could never explain that words hurt differently than bumps and bruises, but they hurt nevertheless.

Jaime leans back in the seat and crosses his arms, “I never told you, wen-- _Brienne,_ but I came across one of these suitors.”

“You _what?”_

“A Ser Ronnet Connington,” Jaime grins.

“I remember him; another poor choice.” Her father seems lost in thought for a moment. “Ser Jaime, what did he say when you met him?

“Nothing worth remembering,” Jaime looks positively _gleeful_ now. “The exchange was brief--I slapped him with my golden hand. Probably the most useful the damned thing ever was.”

Brienne debates the merits of sliding under the table, but she probably wouldn’t fit. Instead, she looks at Jaime, who’s leaning on the stump of his right arm and sipping his wine. _Like the cat that got the cream._

“W-why have I never heard this story?”

Jaime gives a one-shouldered shrug, “I was waiting for the most amusing time to tell you, but it never came. This might _actually_ be the peak for it.”

_“Jaime--”_

Selwyn clears his throat overly loudly, “Since you’ve returned to Tarth and seem intent on remaining, I thought you should learn what’s needed to rule.”

 _Rule._ Brienne doesn’t want to think about that; if she’s the Evenstar, her father is dead. “Father, shouldn’t Jaime be the one to--” 

“No,” her father replies, “The title of the Evenstar will pass to you alone. If Ser Jaime objects, we might want to rethink his presence here.”

A man who isn’t Jaime Lannister might flinch at Selwyn’s tone, but Jaime only laughs. Selwyn looks taken aback but hides it quickly enough.

“I’d never presume to rule a people not my own, Lord Selwyn,” Jaime waves his left hand dismissively. “Brienne has my support, should she require it. If not, I’ll make myself scarce. I’m sure there’s wives who could keep me company. I’ve always been a gossip; maybe I’ll take up sewing.”

“I’ll hold you to your word, Ser Jaime. Don’t disprove its worth.”

“I’ll leave the two of you to discuss it further. I have sand in places I shouldn’t mention in polite company and want for a bath.” Jaime rises from his chair and meets Brienne’s gaze before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her temple.

Brienne means to stammer a reply, but Jaime bids her father good night and leaves before she has a chance.

Her father and she talk for a long, long time. More than all the things Brienne needs to know about ruling Tarth, what she remembers most is her father smiling at her and saying, “I’m still skeptical of Ser Jaime, but I can see that you’re well-suited to one another.”

* * *

Brienne’s eyes are heavy by the time she takes her own bath and returns to her room. The window is open and the night breeze carries the smell of the hydrangeas. She doesn’t want to remember Ronnet Connington, but he was the last person to hand her flowers. It’s a poor comparison because Jaime and Ronnet have _nothing_ in common. 

_What could he have said that led Jaime to strike him?_

Certainly, it was something unkind toward her, but as she slides her breeches off and sits at the edge of the bed, she doesn’t care about that. Ronnet Connington is leagues away and probably dead, and Brienne is at Evenfall with Jaime.

Jaime, who gave her flowers and wanted her company, too. 

Jaime, who kissed her in the water and left her heart a storm of confusion.

He’s asleep already, hair damp and curling on the pillow. Brienne pulls at a tendril of it, rubbing the silky strands between her fingertips. His hair is nicer than hers, but Jaime has always been the beautiful one. When Jaime looks at her, Brienne believes that being cared for doesn’t require beauty.

There’s not room for her in the bed the way Jaime’s sprawled, so she nudges him to his side as gently as she can manage. He’s surprisingly pliable, and she’s able to get under the blanket, too.

Brienne can still feel Jaime’s lips against hers, and the heated way he pressed their bodies together. She was strong enough to hold him up, which Jaime _should_ find repellent, but he was the one who initiated it. Something brazen overcame Brienne in that moment; she’s glad Jaime isn’t awake to tease her now.

She turns onto her side, curls as small as she can manage, and watches Jaime sleep.

* * *

Jaime hasn’t been alone with Selwyn since dinner the first night, and he’s glad for it. Brienne was right that her father asks harder questions than Daenerys or even Tyrion. More than that, Selwyn has a keen sense about him that makes Jaime think he’s _seconds_ away from asking if they’re really married.

He doesn’t actively try to avoid Selwyn because that would be _more_ suspicious. It does mean there’s no getting around Selwyn’s request to talk with him. He doesn’t summon Jaime into his solar, a fact Jaime is glad for--it’s much less pressure to talk outside.

“Ser Jaime,” Selwyn opens with, “is my daughter with child?”

It's a damn good thing Jaime’s not drinking or eating anything because he’d _definitely_ choke. Then, his goodfather could witness his rather non-heroic death. Brienne would be _furious_ after all she had done to keep him alive over the years.

“Brienne is...not.” Jaime’s reply _almost_ sounds normal despite the question feeling like he was punched.

“But the marriage is valid,” Selwyn pauses, “Meaning it’s been consummated.”

Contrary, Jaime replies, “That question is just a _touch_ personal.” It’s better than _I very much want to fuck your daughter, but no, we haven’t yet._

“That may be so,” Selwyn says, “but it concerns the future of my house, Ser Jaime. Without Brienne bearing children, the title of the Evenstar will pass to distant relations.”

The best lie is the one closest to the truth. “It was a war, Lord Selwyn, no time to bring a babe into the world. Then, in King’s Landing, I feared for her safety, so we kept our distance.”

“Does my daughter _want_ children?”

“We...haven’t had a chance to speak on it.”

“I won’t insist on a bedding ceremony, given the unusual nature of your union.”

“I’d protest it if you tried to insist.” If-- _when_ Brienne and he are together, it will be just between them.

“I’d given up on my daughter marrying, but I’ve never been content with Tarth passing to a relation I haven’t seen in decades.”

“You could’ve taken a wife.” Brienne told Jaime, once, that her father kept lovers but never remarried; although, unless he’s hiding her, there doesn’t seem to be one presently. “Even if Brienne remained your heir, another child could continue your line, and their children could inherit from her.”

Selwyn shakes his head, “I’ve buried a wife and three children, Ser Jaime. Brienne would’ve felt less pressure, but I don’t want another wife.”

Jaime tries not to let his frustration leak out. Selywn wanted Brienne to be his sole heir, yet he neglected to impart the lessons she would need and found _shit_ matches for her. _He would’ve married her to some bastard who wouldn’t appreciate her._ It’s lucky they all fell through. The thought of Brienne suffering the marriage bed while some beast of a man rutted above her--

It makes Jaime jealous, but it also makes him _furious._

“She bears the weight of your expectations and suffers because you didn’t prepare her for them.”

“I’ll accept the fault for that.” Selwyn gives Jaime the judgemental look he expected on their introduction. “What do _you_ expect from her, Ser Jaime?”

“I’d like her to be happy,“ Jaime replies, “and to never again think she’s unworthy of what she longs for.”

* * *

Brienne spends most of the morning with Pod, who keeps giving her looks that are _entirely_ too knowing. They spar, and maybe she works him a little harder than she ought. Pod never complains, though, even as he leans against the wall, out of breath.

The afternoon is spent with her father, who talks at her until his voice sounds like bees buzzing. It reminds her of the more droll lectures Septa Roelle used to give, usually on the duties of being a good wife. Brienne’s mind would fly out the window and into a daydream where she alternated between being a knight and a princess.

By the end of the day, she longs to see Jaime. They run into one another in her chambers in the afternoon, but it’s brief. Brienne’s going to make a fool of herself, but she _really_ wants Jaime to kiss her again.

Tarth feels like a set of clothing that haven’t been worn in a long time. They still fit, but they feel _different._ Brienne hopes that showing Jaime the parts of her home that she loved as a girl would help her fit back into the space. If she can experience them with him, maybe they’ll both feel at home.

_Since running off to Essos wasn’t an option._

“There’s a place I want to take you.”

Jaime grins at her, “Anywhere.”

Evenfall has no shortage of terraces with ocean views, but the one Brienne leads Jaime to is her favorite. When she went there as a girl, no one _ever_ found her. It’s attached to a hallway of rarely-used guestrooms.

Brienne opens the door leading outside and places the lantern on the stone railing. “I used to come here when I wanted to be alone.”

“So you brought me?”

“I wanted to--” _Be alone with you. ‘_ I wanted to show you something that’s mine.”

Jaime drags the dusty quilt off the bed and tries to spread it on the stone pavers one-handed. When he huffs in frustration, Brienne takes the other corner. Then, she lays on her back with her knees bent. Jaime joins her--close, but not touching. There’s only a sliver of moon. It’s a clear summer night, and when Brienne looks upward, all the stars in the firmament are laid out before her. She spies the Sword of the Morning and the Moonmaid.

“It’s a good view,” Jaime sounds a little awed. “How was your time with Lord Selwyn?”

“Boring.”

Jaime barks a laugh, “I assumed you were too dutiful to be bored by something you needed to know.”

“I’ll learn it,” Brienne replies stubbornly, “but that doesn’t make it interesting.”

“I can’t imagine it does.” Jaime pauses. “You father asked _me_ an interesting question today.”

Brienne feels a little weight of dread in her stomach. When Jaime doesn’t continue, she grumbles “Care to elaborate?”

“He asked me about children.”

“Children?” Brienne repeats the word like she’s confused; she isn’t.

 _“Yes,_ wench. As in _ours.”_

“W-what did you tell him?”

“That our marriage is _delightfully_ unconsummated.”

“You-- _why would you say that?”_

Jaime’s tone is particularly wry, “I couldn’t lie to my goodfather, and I don’t recall fucking you, so--”

Brienne half wants to throw herself off the terrace to the rocks below. Jaime says the word _fucking_ so easily. Instead, she covers her face with her hands and lets out a frustrated groan. “He’ll know this isn’t--and then he’ll expect us to--”

“I jest. I told Lord Selwyn we’d been careful during the war and then in King’s Landing because our union was a secret.”

“You...lied?”

“Yes. Although, it’s a lie that will quickly spoil, which makes it a poor one.”

The only response Brienne can muster is “Of course, if we’re wed, Father w-would expect--”

“Don’t sound so down; I’m surely not _that_ poor a lover.”

“That’s not it.” Her tone is clipped as every doubt she feels creeps back in. “The kiss, yesterday, it was kind of you...”

The dark masks most of Jaime’s expression, but his voice is low and irritated when he responds, _“Kind,_ Brienne? That wasn’t kindness.”

Brienne looks up at the sky, “I know we’ll be expected to--regardless, it was nice to feel...wanted.”

 _“Feel wanted,”_ Jaime’s repetition is laced with mockery; he rolls away from her and hunches his shoulders. “Earning your trust is impossible. I should learn when to retreat and lick my wounds.”

Brienne looks at his back and feels as cold as she ever did at Winterfell. “I trust you, Jaime.”

“You don't. You’re paying me lip service. It’s fucking _hilarious_ because you’ll prattle on to anyone who will listen about my honor--even people who could burn you alive or lop your head off your shoulders.”

“People should know the truth.”

Jaime laughs, but it’s cruel. “The truth? That I’m selfish? In your heart, you must think less of me than anyone you’ve spouted my virtues to.”

“I--I don’t understand.”

“I want you to believe me.” Now, Jaime sounds brittle and an inch away from shattering. “You expected me to abandon you. In fact, you _suggested_ it. You think I kiss you out of pity, or _worse,_ duty. You’d tell a fucking stranger that I’d treat him better than you think I’d treat _you.”_

Brienne still doesn’t know what to say. Jaime’s words from the day before echo in her memory. _I’m trying to care for you_ _._

 _“You_ ,” Jaime’s voice is barely above a whisper, _“You_ , who hold every wretched, broken piece of me in your hands. I trust you with them, too, even though it makes me a fool. _You_ , who I--”

 _I’m hurting him._ Even though she’s only ever tried to protect him. Brienne rests a tentative hand on Jaime’s shoulder; she can feel the tension running through him. “I’m listening,” she whispers, “Tell me, please, what I’m doing wrong.”

“I don’t pity you,” Jaime replies.”You’re _outstanding_. You don’t need an old, one-handed knight to make you feel you’re worthy of anything. I kissed you because I’m selfish, and I wanted to.”

“I’m ugly.”

Jaime chuckles and rolls onto his back, “See, you’re looking for a way to sabotage what I said.”

“You w-wanted to?” Even in her own voice, it’s hard to believe.

“There’s my wench. You’re _obscenely_ distracting--I wanted to kiss you at dinner the other night. I thought about knocking all the dishes off the table and taking you right there.”

Predictably, Brienne feels her cheeks heating. “I--um.”

“You put your arm around me while we sleep,” Jaime continues, “You held my wrist like you were protecting me. When you woke, I wanted my _wife_ to kiss me senseless and ride my cock.”

_“Jaime.”_

He reaches up and cups her cheek, “You’re wanted. I’m certainly not the only man who would, but I’m jealous, Brienne. I don’t want to share your affections, but I _especially_ don’t want to compete with the version of me in your mind.”

“Alright.”

“What do _you_ want, Brienne?”

“To not fear that I’m unfit, or that you don’t like what you see.”

“In case you can’t tell,” Jaime says, “I’m grinning like a fool. Ask me for something challenging next time, but kiss me first.”

Brienne’s blood drums in her ears as she lowers her lips to Jaime’s. It’s barely a peck, at first, but she finds herself growing greedy when Jaime anchors his hand in her hair and bumps their noses together. The kiss the day before had a fire behind it; the feel of Jaime’s gaze at her transparent shirt, the wet slide of his skin against hers. She’d been overwhelmed with sensation, but worried about what it meant. Without the worry, Brienne is free to explore different configurations, to see what makes Jaime tighten his grip and sigh into the space between them. Jaime swipes his tongue against her lips, and she opens for him, trying to give him the trust he’s earned.

After, she rests her head against Jaime’s chest and shuts her eyes, the stars above them forgotten. The stump rests on her back, and Jaime’s left hand finds hers.

 _“Sweetling,”_ Jaime says the endearment in a way that’s quite grating, “Wasn’t that much better?”

“It was,” Brienne smiles into his shirt, “but why does ‘sweetling’ sound less genuine than ‘wench?’”

* * *

They’re to wed in four days.

Brienne will be his wife, _truly_ and permanently.

Jaime watches her sleep until he grows fidgety with waiting. Then, he shakes Brienne’s shoulder and says her name quietly until she stirs. Her eyes flutter open, blue and luminous. As soon as Brienne focuses, she furrows her brow and looks at Jaime.

“Good morning, my lady wife.” 

Brienne’s brows draw closer together, “Must you _croon_ it like that?”

“Can I not greet you good morning?” 

“You may,” Brienne rubs at her eyes, “but perhaps not so annoyingly?”

Brienne glares and makes to roll away from him, but Jaime halts her by throwing his right arm over her.

“I was sleeping.”

He smiles and hopes it’s the least bit alluring, “Now, you’re awake enough to kiss.”

“Is that worth being woken up for?”

Jaime covers her lips with his own and immediately seeks to deepen the exchange. Brienne is forceful when she’s confident, so Jaime’s blood sings when she holds his face between her hands and keeps him still. He tugs on her lower lip with his teeth and absorbs her tiny gasp into the next kiss.

He’s half sprawled atop her, and they carry on that way for a long moment, trading slow kisses. Jaime moves his to the scarred cheek, then nibbles on her ear, before brushing his lips against the hollow of her throat. Brienne’s lips are wonderful for kissing, but there’s so much more of her to taste and touch. 

_Mine._

When Jaime looks down at her, Brienne is flushed, but it’s not with embarrassment. Her eyes are wide and blue, and her breathing is uneven. _I’m doing that to her, but I want to do more._

“Brienne,” Jaime pushes his fingers through her pale hair, “I want to try something.”

Her unguarded expression shifts to just a bit wary. “What is it?”

“You’re going to decry it as indecent,” Jaime gives her lips a peck, “and you’re going to be embarrassed.”

“I--that’s _not_ making me feel at ease.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. How about if I say you’ll like it?”

“...I suppose we’ll see.”

Brienne wouldn’t be his wench if she wasn’t stubborn; Jaime likes a challenge anyway. He gives her a final grin before vanishing under the blankets. Imagining Brienne’s confused expression has him chuckling as he burrows his way to his goal. She jumps when he touches her bare calf, then freezes as his hand slides upward past her knee.

“I liked from the first that you don’t wear breeches to bed.”

“...I don’t do it for you.”

Jaime kisses her inner thigh and feels Brienne’s muscles jump under his palm. “I suppose I’m an opportunist. Move up; I need more room.”

Surprisingly, Brienne listens without question, reclining against the bank of pillows. It gives Jaime room to curl his legs under him. Brienne’s bent knees are tenting the blanket, so Jaime uses his stump to nudge them further apart. She’s pliant until the angle becomes too obtuse, then she becomes a statue.

Jaime keeps his right forearm against her leg and starts kissing his way up her other from the knee. Her skin is soft, and he knows there’s freckles under his lips. Hopefully, by the time he reaches the apex of her thighs, Brienne will take his meaning. At the border of her smallclothes, Jaime nuzzles his nose against her skin. 

The warmth and the scent of her is too maddening. Heat comes off of Brienne in waves, and Jaime wants to push aside her smallclothes and bury his face in her cunt. Instead, he scrapes his beard across her skin and revels in the way her breath hitches.

When he pokes his head out from between Brienne’s spread thighs, she’s biting her lip. Jaime knows for certain that, if he’s worthy to witness it, the sight of her unguarded passion will devastate him.

“Jaime, what are you--”

“I’m going to eat your cunt.”

Brienne’s maidenly blush is _delightful._ She’s looking at him like Jaime suggested they fuck in front of her father. When he presses a finger against her smallclothes, she’s sodden with her desire.

“That-that’s not--men don’t _like_ doing that,” she blurts. “It’s wanton, and it means the woman doesn’t know her place.”

Jaime raises a brow, “Do you _really_ believe that? It sounds like some shit a septa would make you memorize.”

“I don’t believe it,” Brienne whispers, “but it’s just that it’s _me.”_

He moves his left hand to her hip and slips his fingers under the fabric. _“Seven hells,_ Brienne, it’s always been you.”

“Then, please,” she says even more quietly, “and I’m sorry, if it’s--”

Jaime doesn’t want to hear Brienne apologize for being herself. He wants to focus on her tiny, barely audible _please_ and how to make her grow bold in her requests. When he gives her space, Brienne lifts her hips. He tugs the fabric down; it gets lost somewhere in the sea of bedding. Jaime wants to see the expression of her pleasure--the way she might gasp or tilt her head back against the pillows. Her lips might part, a moan escaping, and she might grasp at the bedsheets for purchase. 

For now, he’ll give Brienne her privacy.

The morning light filtered through the blankets is low, but Jaime doesn’t need to see. Brienne’s legs are spread so wide her knees nearly touch the mattress, baring herself to him. 

“Don’t crush me,” he teases, hooking his right arm around her leg from underneath. _It’s useless for pleasuring her, but it can keep me from meeting my end between her thighs._ Then again, he’s been in line for _much_ worse deaths.

“I-I won’t.”

Jaime wants to say his tongue will be so earth-shattering that she’ll have no choice, but that’s probably not the case. It’s hard to say where Cersei truly took her pleasure--Jaime’s skill or her hold on him. 

_Hopefully, Brienne won’t judge me poorly._

He slides his fingers through the moisture gathered at her entrance, paired with the barest hint of a kiss on her inner thigh. When Jaime reaches her cunt, he almost thinks to tease but can’t bear the waiting. The first taste is a long stroke with the flat of his tongue. Brienne positively _shudders,_ which makes Jaime feel smug enough to repeat the motion. Jaime likens it to a test of endurance. He’ll eat Brienne’s cunt like she fights-- _slow,_ steady, and waiting for _just_ the right moment to escalate. Brienne’s breathing starts to come in little pants, punctuated by the occasional shaky moan.

What Jaime wants to to make her _scream._

Brienne’s tells and preferences are something he’s eager to learn. For now, Jaime pulls his mouth from her and asks, “Do you want my fingers, too?”

“Y-yes.”

She’s never, ever _sounded_ like that before. 

Two fingers slide in easily; the motion feels uncoordinated, and he hasn’t missed his swordhand this intensely in some time. Brienne cries out when his fingers fill her, and again on the retreat and second advance. Jaime needs to occupy his mouth in some other way, so he works his tongue against the bundle of nerves above her entrance. Brienne cries his name, and her cunt clenches around his fingers. Jaime repeats the motion again and again until her thighs are shaking from her pleasure. Her hips rise off the bed, seeking more, and Jaime’s glad of his right arm holding her in place.

When Brienne’s release hits her, she falls strangely silent. Jaime wishes he weren’t under the blanket. He takes his fingers out of her and resumes the long, slow strokes of his tongue to bring her down.

After a moment, Brienne pushes the blanket away enough to free Jaime. His hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat and being free to the air makes him realize how stuffy it was. He’ll need a glass of water, but first…

_Brienne._

Brienne’s skin is flushed rosy, and her expression is a sweet mixture of sated and slightly awed. The way she’s biting her bottom lip makes Jaime think she must’ve done it while he was pleasuring her. Jaime laments not getting to witness it, but the imagined sight of it is an agony in itself.

He can wait. _Fuck_ , he can fumble through taking care of himself.

“Seems like that got you where you needed to go.” Jaime’s bravado falls quite short of the swagger he aimed for.

Brienne’s charmingly dazed, but she nods. “I--y-you can do that whenever you like.”

Jaime climbs between her thighs and collapses, face buried in her shirt. If Brienne’s confused by his outburst, her steady hand on his back doesn’t reveal it.

“Anytime,” Jaime says into the fabric, “Tap my knee during dinner, and I’ll be under the table between your thighs before you can _blink.”_

Jaime expects Brienne to scold him, but she laughs. “Please, _please_ don’t do that.”

They elbow each other a bit, but eventually settle comfortably with Jaime in Brienne’s arms. He’s content to be held and not pushed away. It _feels_ like Brienne loves him, and Jaime hopes he’s right.

“J-Jaime,” Brienne stutters after a few moments, “You’re--is there anything I can do?”

“Don’t worry about it. I can _guarantee_ breakfast will arrive right in the middle.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pod lands a strike on her, and he’s so taken aback that he nearly drops his sword into the dust.
> 
> “My lady, are you unwell?”
> 
> Brienne shakes her head, “No, Pod. I’m only a bit tired.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved reading all your comments! This chapter is spicy, too, but not the spiciest.

Pod lands a strike on her, and he’s so taken aback that he nearly drops his sword into the dust.

“My lady, are you unwell?”

Brienne shakes her head, “No, Pod. I’m only a bit tired.”

“We can skip practice today,” his shoulders sag a fraction, “I’m certain I haven’t improved in quite a while.”

“Why don’t we take a few moments?”

Pod nods and fetches them water. It’s pleasantly cool, and Brienne resists the urge to gulp it down. After an initial drink, Pod seems to decide the same. The practice yard has a view of the sea, and Brienne stares out at the water.

“Is it only fatigue, my lady?”

“N-no, it’s--” _Jaime._ Only Brienne would rather fall on Oathkeeper than tell Pod a single detail of what transpired between them this morning. The memory makes her feel warm all over, so she takes another sip of water. “What do you think of Tarth, Pod?”

“It’s peaceful,” he replies, “and filled with pretty things.”

“Do you mean the landscape or the village girls?”

It’s more of a question Jaime might ask, but it distracts Pod from noticing how off-kilter she feels. He turns a bit pink, but the grin he gives her reminds her _so_ much of Jaime.

“Both.”

“Keep your hands...and the rest of you, to yourself.” It’s a hard command to give when Brienne spent the morning as she did.

“Yes, my lady.” Pod pauses, and his expression turns pensive. “I know I’m only your squire, but if you need someone to listen--”

Brienne puts a hand on his shoulder. Depending on the day, she feels like both an older sister and a mother to Pod. Jaime told her, once, that she was nurturing, but she hadn’t quite believed him at the time. 

“I mislike lying,” she lowers her voice, “It feels dishonorable.”

“Even though you did it to protect Ser Jaime?”

“Didn’t I trap him, though? What if he didn’t want to live on Tarth?”

Pod touches the noose scarring on his neck; it’s much more faded than her own, but Brienne still feels sick when she looks at it. It makes her think how cruel Lady Stoneheart was, how unlike Catelyn Stark was in life. _We all could’ve died._

“I’d go with you anywhere, my lady.” Pod’s expression only reflects the earnest sentiment behind his words. “I think Ser Jaime feels the same.”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll be content here. I offered to let him go now that we’re well away from the queen.”

“He refused?”

Brienne nods, “It angered him. He said he wouldn’t dishonor me by abandoning me, but we’re not really married.”

“Ser Jaime...might not see it that way.” Pod hides his expression behind his wooden mug. “He’s loyal to you.”

“I--I’m glad you accompanied me here, Pod.” Brienne looks away and out to the sea, unsure of how to express her gratitude. “Both you and Jaime.”

“You had no reason to take me along with you, yet you still did. I’ll always follow you.”

* * *

Being consumed with thoughts of Jaime touching her as an abstract fantasy was bad enough, but an _actual_ memory makes her entire body feel aflame. The sensations were--Brienne doesn’t even have the words describe it, only that it felt _astounding._

And there was the moment at the end, when Brienne was sated and boneless from the release Jaime had given her, where he emerged from under the blanket and fell into her arms. The sight was indecent--from the wanton way she’d spread her legs for him, to the way his beard was damp with _her._ The memory is erotic in a way Brienne doesn’t know what to do with, only that it’s burned behind her eyelids. She feels a hot rush of desire each time she returns to it, which, unfortunately for her, is hourly.

In Renly’s camp, and even at Winterfell, Brienne tried to avoid watching soldiers with the whores they bought, but she’d seen and heard enough to know the way it went. The women’s pleasure sounded feigned, and the men put forth little effort. The knowledge came long after her own expectations for the marriage bed were laid plainly before her.

Jaime wasn’t like that. He looked _happy,_ like it pleased him to please her. He also asked for nothing in return.

Brienne shakes her head like it will rattle away the memory of Jaime’s obnoxious, _wicked_ tongue. It doesn’t, but it _does_ make her father give her an odd look from across the table.

“Is something the matter, Brienne?”

“No!” She picks up some vegetables from her plate and stuffs them in her mouth. It’s _almost_ as unbecoming as the far-off expression she’d been making before. “I was just lost in thought.”

Jaime, across the table from her, says, “It seems Lady Brienne’s been given _much_ to think about since arriving home.”

“Perhaps we should go riding this afternoon,” Selwyn scratches his beard. “We can show Ser Jaime some of the island's vistas that are unseen from Evenfall.”

“I _do_ love unseen vistas, Lord Selwyn.” Brienne might be imagining it, but Jaime’s every word seems laced with innuendo.

 _A ride will be a fine distraction._ “I’d like that, Father. It’s been too long since I’ve seen the inside of the island.”

Selywn’s laugh is booming, “I can tell when my daughter’s not in the mood to sit inside.”

“A good plan,” Jaime agrees, “Brienne _does_ seem a bit distracted on this fine day.”

Brienne’s not sure if she wants to kiss him or curse him.

Then, Jaime’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, and Brienne has her answer.

_Damn him._

* * *

Tarth is fucking _gorgeous._

Jaime knew it from the ship, even as his stomach roiled more than the waves beneath him. He knew it at the quaint port and the entire ride up the mountain side as he gripped the reins and hoped that it didn’t take two hands to keep him from falling to his death. He knew it when he looked out at the sea from Evenfall’s windows and when he laid next to Brienne on a dusty quilt and gazed at the stars.

He wasn’t prepared for something as innocuous sounding as _the middle of the island._

They ride in a direction that’s new to Jaime. Brienne and Selwyn two abreast and him trailing behind. He would prefer to be beside Brienne, but he can defer to her father for today. 

In the end, it’s a boon because if Brienne or Selwyn looked back, they’d see Jaime, mouth agape like some slack-jawed peasant. The meadow they ride through is so thick with wildflowers that it’s a rainbow of pinks, yellows, and whites. Backed by a sky the color of Brienne’s eyes are the mountains that run down the spine of the island. It looks like a painter's rendering from a storybook because _certainly_ a place this majestic can’t exist.

He’s only half listening, but Jaime’s certain Brienne says something to her father about her favorite waterfall. _There’s more than one? And who the fuck has a favorite waterfall?_

They seem to be having a debate about the merits of one waterfall over another. _This_ is where Jaime wants to be until he dies--in a sea of wildflowers listening to his wife and goodfather discuss the merits and demerits of Tarth’s water features. It’s so fucking beautiful that Jaime feels like someone has backhanded his heart with his lost golden hand. The summer breeze feels like a caress, so gentle that Jaime shuts his eyes, trusting the horse to follow the others.

 _How do I deserve this?_ The man who broke his oaths and crippled a child to keep it a secret that he fucked his sister and couldn’t even protect his children and--

The horse doesn’t keep pace with the other two. When Jaime opens his eyes, Brienne and Selwyn are quite a ways ahead. Jaime nearly calls out, but waiting to see if they notice is more amusing. 

After a moment, Brienne comes trotting back to him.

“Jaime?” He doesn’t respond immediately, so Brienne halts her horse so they’re going opposite directions and reaches out to cup his cheek. “Are you unwell? Is the sun too hot?”

Brienne holds out her waterskin, and Jaime takes it and drinks even though he isn’t thirsty. Then, she places her straw hat atop his head.

“Don’t you need that, wench?”

She shakes her head, “An hour or two of sun won’t hurt me. Summer feels good, doesn’t it?”

Jaime finds himself smiling, “It _really_ does.”

The only thing Jaime wants to rank about the waterfalls is how astonishing it is that there’s _two fucking waterfalls_ within a hour’s ride of Evenfall. They admire both, refilling their waterskins with the cool run-off from the mountains. They eat blackberries that might be the most delicious thing Jaime’s ever eaten. Brienne keeps feeding him tidbits of information about the land and nearby villages with input from Selwyn.

He hopes neither of them ask him to recall any of the information because all he hears is how at ease Brienne sounds, and all he’ll remember is her small, shy smile as she recounts a memory.

There’s _hours_ left of daylight when Selwyn tells them, “There’s someone I've need to call on in the village we rode past earlier. The two of you don’t need to accompany me, though.”

Brienne returns to her horse, “We can, Father. I’d like to see more of what’s changed.”

“It’s a boring errand,” Selwyn waves one of his giant hands dismissively, “You’re young--summer is made for you, so enjoy it. Maybe Ser Jaime wants to spend some time with his bride.”

Selwyn rides away, and Brienne calls after him, “We’ll see you at supper, Father!”

When he shrinks into the distance, Brienne leans her back against a nearby tree and crosses her arms. “Father’s behaving oddly.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow, “Do you think so?”

She scowls, “He just...rode off.”

“Brienne, that wasn’t exactly subtle of him.”

“What do you mean?”

 _“Time with his wife,”_ Jaime parrots, “He might as well have just outright said, ‘I’m leaving so the two of you can fuck.”

Like the sun rises and sets, Brienne blushes in that mottled way of hers. Surely, she hadn’t forgotten what transpired between them that very morning. 

“I--he _certainly_ didn’t mean that. It’s not proper.”

He laughs, and it builds until Jaime slides to the ground and rests his back against the trunk of the oak they stopped under. “We’re married, wench, and you know he’s eager for grandchildren.”

Brienne lowers her voice, “But we’re _not_ wed, Jaime, not really.”

“In three days we will be, so what does it matter?” It’s the first time either of them have spoken it aloud since their first night on Tarth. Jaime removes Brienne’s hat before shutting his eyes and leaning his head against the bark. “Brienne, you’re...two-and-twenty?” 

“I should’ve wed years ago,” she sighs, “I’d have two babes by now, maybe three.”

“You’re not a broodmare,” Jaime snaps, “and that’s not my point. How old is your father?”

“Five-and-fifty...I believe.”

 _“Gods,_ he said summer is made for the young.” Jaime feels old, and exhausted, and wants to nap in the grass. “I’m nearly the same age apart from your father as I am from you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Brienne sounds typically stubborn. She’s never been shy if she wanted to insult him, so Jaime believes her.

“Say that in a decade or two when you wake up beside a man grayer than your father.”

There’s a rustling, then Brienne’s familiar hand on his shoulder. Jaime opens his eyes to find her sitting next to him amongst the wildflowers. “I’d be grateful for such a life.”

Brienne’s sincerity knocks down the last barricade between them. She isn’t smiling, but the look in her eyes is so soft Jaime wants to lose himself in it.

“You, ah--” Now _he’s_ the stumbletongue, unsure of what to say now that Brienne and he might, at last, be on the same page. “You _want_ to marry me, don’t you?”

Even though Brienne has never tricked him with honeyed words and a dagger in his back, Jaime expects a rejection.

“I do,” she whispers, eyes downcast, “I’d be _happy._ I’m no lady, and I never expected to be a wife.”

Desperate for her, Jaime reaches out for Brienne's calloused hands and reels her into his arms. She comes easily, surprising him by throwing her leg over his outstretched ones and settling across his lap. Brienne rests her hands on his chest and averts her eyes. Jaime can’t abide that, so he cups her cheek in his left hand and tilts her face up until their gazes are parallel. Her blush delights him, and Jaime can’t remember how he ever looked at Brienne with anything but affection and desire. 

“You’re a lady,” he tells her, “A sweet maid and a strong, honorable knight. I’m unworthy of both.”

_“Jaime.”_

“Why do you sound like you’re scolding me, wench?”

“You praise me as you malign yourself,” she chides; her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “I shall try to be a good lady wife to you.”

“I never thought to be a husband, either.” _A life I gave up for my sister the day I donned the white cloak._ Jaime runs the pad of his thumb over the scarring on her cheek. “Just be as you are, Brienne.”

A breeze ruffles through Jaime’s hair, and Brienne leans in to kiss him.

_Perfect._

* * *

Brienne can’t kiss as Jaime does; when she presses her lips against his, she feels every inch of her awkward, unfeminine body. Even their position, which seemed fine at first, has the muscled weight of her on Jaime’s legs. He’s nearly as tall as she is and certainly no waif, but the daydream of being someone who could be swept off her feet just isn’t _her._

Jaime’s stump is pressed against her lower back, pushing her closer with a gentle insistence until they’re nearly chest-to-chest. Brienne, in a fit of boldness, adds her tongue to the fray. Jaime laughs into the breath of space between them and meets her tongue with his own. The kiss suits the afternoon--a slow, warm slide that makes Brienne feel like she’s taken a nap in the sun. 

The feeling spreads to the rest of her until her lips are pressed against Jaime’s jaw, and she’s thinking how his tongue felt that morning, lapping at her until she was tumbling off a cliff. She presses a kiss to a soft spot just below his ear, then darts her tongue out to taste his skin. In response, Jaime throws his head against the trunk of the tree and works his right arm under her shirt. Brienne feels the hardness of his arousal, just as she had this morning, only this time she’s in a position to seek some friction for herself.

It’s nothing as good as Jaime’s mouth felt, but the way the cloth of her breeches rubs against her is a fine prelude. It also makes Jaime say her name--a shaky version that makes Brienne think he’s talking to someone else. Brienne repeats the motion, and Jaime cups his left hand over her backside.

 _“Gods.”_ He interrupts himself with a wet, messy kiss. “I’m likely to come in my breeches if you keep at that.”

Brienne can’t tell how he feels about that. “This morning,” Brienne whispers, “when you did _that--”_

“This morning was a while ago; I’m not sure I recall.”

“You’re _grating,”_ she huffs. Then, Brienne tries again, “When you used your mouth to--”

Jaime chuckles in her ear, “You can’t say it, can you?”

Brienne shakes her head, and he kisses her cheek for her trouble. “Don’t fret about it; I can talk enough for two.”

“D-did you not want me to touch you?” Brienne looks away; it frightens her how much Jaime wanting her has grown to mean over the past few days. It seemed impossible, but being proven it wasn’t has made it dear to her.

“I _very_ much wanted you to.” Jaime brushes her cheek with his stump to get Brienne to look him in the eye. “I just didn’t want you to feel compelled simply because _I’d_ done something.”

“In fairness--” she protests.

“It’s not about that,” he interrupts, “I don’t want to keep score. Fucking is a game I’ve been on the losing end of my entire life, only I was too much of a fool to notice the game was rigged.”

Brienne rarely speaks of Cersei, but she feels she must. _I can love you better, and you deserve that._

“I’m not your sister, Jaime.”

“I'm sorry. She was just _everything_ for so long, and there are ghosts of her in strange corners. I find her in places I don’t understand.”

“We all bear burdens,” Brienne pauses and thinks of what she wants. “I-I don’t care if we’re truly wed before we--”

Jaime starts laughing so hard that Brienne starts to worry she said something wrong. He’s shaking with it, and he clings to her as he quiets.

“We’re not divesting your of your maidenhood against a tree, wench.” 

Emboldened, Brienne reples, “I-I _want_ to--”

“And we will,” Jaime is grinning at her, “but you’ll forgive me for wishing for something nicer.”

She glances around and says, stubborn, “It’s nice here.”

“A bed, my lady, with a locked door and _time.”_ His tone makes Brienne shiver with the promise in it. “We can open the damned window if you’re suddenly interested in the thrill of getting caught fucking.”

“I--that’s _not,_ ” Brienne moves to stand, trying to ignore the unfulfilled ache within her. “Let’s return to Evenfall, then.”

Jaime grabs her wrist and kisses where her pulse races under the skin. “I like this eager side of you, my lady. I think we can pass a hour well enough here.”

Brienne returns to him, and lets Jaime show her a great number of things. His beard scraping over the sensitive skin below her collarbone sends her spiraling. Even worse is when Jaime rucks her shirt up over her breasts and uses his tongue and teeth to drag a moan from her lips. When Jaime switches from one nipple to the other, the summer breeze cools her heated skin and makes her shudder.

She touches Jaime through the rough fabric of his breeches--they’re the pair with the rip in the thigh that she’d poorly mended. Jaime fumbles with the lacings and guides her hand inside to touch his cock. Brienne’s seen Jaime vulnerable before her, but there’s nothing quite like the way he drops his head onto her shoulder and draws an uneven breath. Her touch feels clunky and unpracticed, but Jaime guides her and doesn’t seem to mind.

When he stops guiding her, Jaime grips her thigh with his left hand so tightly that Briene thinks she might bruise.

 _“Gods,”_ Jaime stumbles, “don’t stop. Please, I--”

Brienne doesn’t want Jaime to beg, but there’s something about his neediness that she wants more of. It feels like trust and caring and closeness. She’s never made another person feel like that. Jaime asks, without care for how he sounds, and Brienne answers, picking up her pace.

Jaime spills into her hand with a guttural groan, still gripping her thigh for purchase. The force of it startles Brienne, and she stares at her hand until Jaime begins laughing.

Brienne reaches out and wipes her palm on the grass; it doesn’t work very well. 

Jaime says into her shoulder, “We disappointed your father.”

“W-what?” 

“Well, I can’t make a babe with the wildflowers.”

* * *

The sun is nearly set by the time they return to Evenfall. 

Selwyn is standing near the stables against the stone wall, arms crossed and watching them. Jaime makes eye contact with him. Selwyn raises his bushy gray eyebrows as if to ask _well?_ Jaime just grins blithely and shrugs.

The look Selwyn gives him is so Brienne-like in it’s displeasure that Jaime turns to pass the reins of his horse off to a waiting stablehand so Selwyn won’t see him laughing silently. _I’m not giving you that, old man._ Jaime met what he told Brienne about her being more than her ability to produce an heir. Cersei controlled that aspect of Jaime’s life, too, and he’d given her what she desired with little thought of how deeply it would cut that he had three children he’d never know. 

Myrcella, at least, was content in Dorne, but Tommen, and even Joffrey--

If Brienne wants children, he would be thrilled. If she doesn’t, they’ll be careful. Jaime only wants to make the choice together on their own time. Not that Selwyn would know, but the concept feels so far away to him.

_We’re not there, yet._

Brienne is talking with the stablehand, something about asking after the health of the lad’s mother. It’s a simple thing, but the scene makes Jaime’s heart grow full with his love for her. He likes watching her with Pod, too. They used to make him smile long ago when they were looking for Sansa, even though Jaime didn’t understand why.

_She’s a mother already; she just doesn’t see it._

As soon as she’s done with the stablehand, Jaime catches her arm as she passes and squeezes it before pulling her close.

“My father’s _right_ there,” she whispers.

“You’ve my word that it will be courtly,” Jaime replies, ”Besides, you want him to believe us, don’t you?”

“I do.”

He isn’t sure what’s fake and what’s true any longer. Brienne’s lie to protect him unearthed a wellspring of feelings. They’re not wed, but it feels like they are. Brienne _wants_ him, cares about him, but he doesn’t know if she loves him. Jaime takes comfort in not being alone in his confusion.

Brienne is real, and that’s enough.

Hand still on her arm, Jaime goes up on his toes to kiss her. It’s brief and wholly decent, but since Selwyn is watching, Brienne’s skin matches the sunset. 

“I had fun today, _sweetling.”_

Brienne glares at him and bolts past him into the house, calling out that she needs to wash up and change for dinner. It’s late, and Jaime’s stomach started protesting in hunger before they even began the ride back to Evenfall.

When she’s gone, Selwyn walks up to Jaime. “You’re sweet to her, Ser Jaime.” Unlike Brienne, Selwyn’s tone doesn’t give his judgment away.

“Brienne deserves it.”

“You’ve gotten close to her,” he continues, “She doesn’t make it easy.”

“Stubborn as an ox and more fortified than than the strongest keep.”

Selwyn chuckle is more of a rumble. “That’s my daughter. It surprises me that she’s still so shy, given how well acquainted the two of you are.”

Jaime chooses his next words carefully, “That’s just her personality.”

“It is,” Selwyn tilts his head and gives Jaime a look that's _entirely_ too scrutinizing. “She looks surprised, sometimes, when you act like her husband.”

“Maybe I’m just poor at it,” Jaime knows it’s not a great reply, but falling on his sword is all he can think of to turn Selwyn’s keen eye away from Brienne.

“It just seems new between you,” Selwyn answers, “Mayhaps you haven’t been together as long as I assumed?”

Jaime opens his mouth to say _something,_ but Selwyn claps him on the back, “As your goodfather, I have a piece of advice.”

Jaime hates how wary he sounds when he answers, “...Yes?”

“If Brienne doesn’t know you love her, you should tell her. I think she’d like to hear it.”

* * *

_Would she like to hear it?_

Jaime, since realizing the depth of his feelings, hasn’t wanted to burden her with them. It was bad enough that she lied to protect him and was now stuck with him. The last thing she needed was the added complication of the love of the aged, one-handed knight. He’d never been good enough for her, and that was immutable.

They know an intimacy, now, that they didn’t have prior to living as husband and wife. They’d talked, and kissed, and Jaime knew what it was to hold her and please her. Jaime always thought Brienne deserved a good love; it just only recently occurred to him that _he_ might be the one to provide it. Loving her, long before he realized it, taught Jaime so much. It helped him make better choices, to understand that Cersei never felt as he did, to try and repair what others thought of him.

_If she feels it in return, I’d like to hear it._

There’s the risk it might damage what they built, but every action Jaime’s taken for the last month was borne of his love for Brienne, and they’ve never been so close.

Thankfully, Brienne and Pod carry the conversation through dinner, leaving Jaime to eat and think in peace. When Brienne kisses her father’s cheek goodnight, Jaime leaves with her.

Selwyn gives him that too-knowing look again.

When the door to Brienne’s chamber is shut and bolted behind them, Jaime’s nerves are replaced by a calm certainty. It’s the same as holding a blade in his right hand long ago--a sense of purpose and clarity.

Brienne watches him with a soft expression in her eyes. Her rejection would be gentle, but Jaime _finally_ realizes he won’t get one.

Jaime wants to hold her face in his hands, to make sure Brienne is looking at him when he spills his heart. He can’t, so he rests his left hand on her cheek and the stump against the other side. He still doesn’t like looking at it, but Brienne curls her fingers around his forearm.

_There’s nothing to lose here._

“You know I’m a fool, Brienne.”

“You’re not.”

“I am about some things,” he corrects, “especially about myself. You understood me from the beginning better than I’ve ever understood myself.” Brienne looks about to protest, but Jaime doesn’t want to lose his momentum. “I’m better, now, so before we face one another in a sept, and you fret the entire time, wondering of my feelings, I wanted to tell you that I love you. Every kiss, every jape and poor courting attempt--it was all for that.”

Brienne leans into his hand and tightens her grip on his right arm. “I--I hoped it wasn’t just desire. I reassured myself that since I’m not beautiful, it might be more.”

“That sounds _exactly_ like something you would think.”

The smile she gives him is intimate and rare. “Jaime, I’ve loved you for a long, _long_ time.”

“Unsurprisingly, you noticed it sooner.”

“You’re the one who said that, not me.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A good man would wait._
> 
> Brienne deserves that sort of man--the type Jaime had been making an effort to be since they arrived on Tarth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the SPICIEST chapter! 🔥

_A good man would wait._

Brienne deserves that sort of man--the type Jaime had been making an effort to be since they arrived on Tarth.

Some aspects of it come easily, doting on Brienne with gestures meant to woo. Most of them are silly and unneeded, but Jaime never felt such satisfaction as pulling a chair from a table so Brienne could sit. Even if he struggles one-handed, at the task, and Brienne has to help; it’s the sentiment that counts. 

The restraint aspect is much, _much_ harder. Jaime’s never, _ever_ been a patient man; he wants to fuck Brienne, but he absolutely, _absolutely_ should wait. Now that their marriage is imminent, desire courses through Jaime like he’s been denied being with her since the day she dragged him from Riverrun. 

He’d been like that with Cersei--so overcome with lust that he’d risk their secret to have her in any corner they could occupy. Jaime wanted to claim her before the world, consequences be damned, but Cersei always had more sense about it. It seemed right for so long that wanting to possess another was the only way to feel desire.

Wanting Brienne is _nothing_ like that. Jaime’s feelings burn white-hot, but he isn’t desperate, and he isn’t afraid. The newness of it makes him need her all the more. He curses himself for refusing her under the tree the day prior--she was willing, soft and pliant across his lap, and he could’ve claimed her in the afternoon sunlight. It would’ve been lovely and just between them.

 _Damn my thought that she deserved a featherbed._

The _right_ thing is to stand before her in the sept, and _then_ take her to the marriage bed. Jaime tells himself that when they retire for the evening and, for the first time, he tucks his head under Brienne’s chin and falls asleep with her arm around him. He likes the intention behind it rather than the happenstance of waking up entwined the past few mornings.

He thinks it again at dawn when he wakes up, cock hard, and turns away from Brienne to muster his thoughts into some sense of order. _It’s two days. You’ve waited years, most of which you were too foolish to know what you wanted._

All that sticks from that line of logic is the _waited years_ bit.

Years where, in addition to fighting in mud and ice against dragons and wights and Seven hells knows what else, they could’ve _also_ been fucking. It would’ve improved Jaime’s morale substantially The last time he had sex was--Jaime blanches just thinking about it--was with Cersei in the sept. _Three years? Maybe more._

_A completely different life._

“I’m supposed to meet with Father again,” Brienne says after they take breakfast in her room. “Can you keep an eye on Pod? He likes the village girls too much.”

“Pod has a _long_ way to go before he’s getting friendly with village maidens; he can’t manage past introductions.”

“Nevertheless,” Brienne replies.

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about _me?_ What if they bypass Pod entirely; I’m _very_ fetching.”

“As soon as you speak, they’ll run,” she rolls her eyes, but then her expression turns serious. “I-I don’t think you’d stray. Even if _this_ was just us, as friends, you’d---”

Brienne judged his fidelity correctly. His loyalty to Cersei lasted much too long because she told him they were one. His loyalty to Brienne was by choice and stronger for it.

“We _are_ friends.” Brienne purses her lips in a way that lands somewhere between confused and pensive. She makes no indication of responding, so Jaime barrels forward. “Not _only_ friends, but I genuinely _like_ spending time with you just...talking. It’s--” 

_Unprecedented._

Her lips curl into the barest hint of a smile, “I feel the same.”

Jaime’s grin must make him look a bit unhinged. He wraps his right arm around Brienne’s waist and pulls her close. “It’s important, and I never knew it was.” 

He fooled himself into believing that things would be different between Cersei and him if their situation allowed. It was one of the many times he pulled the wool over his own eyes. Jaime lied to himself better than to anyone else.

“I wanted more,” Brienne whispers, “for a long time, but I would’ve been content with your companionship. I feared losing it when the queen said we had to marry...again.”

“Even if we _never_ fucked because you were only trying to protect me and didn’t _truly_ want me as your husband, I’d stay with you.”

“That’s--it’s not like that.” Brienne’s cheeks grow rosy, but it’s not the usual violent blush. Jaime takes it that he’s becoming the best kind of bad influence. 

“Oh, wench, _I know.”_ He grins before kissing Brienne briefly enough that it doesn’t escalate. “Go, meet your father. I’ll keep an eye on your precious son so you don’t become a grandmother too soon.”

 _“Son?_ Pod’s not--”

“Whatever you say.”

* * *

Selwyn doesn’t seem interested in lessons today.

They talk for a few moments about the status of Tarth’s eastern port--the one she offered to take Jaime to should he want to escape to Essos. So much has changed in the last few days that the fact that Brienne even _suggested_ such a course of action is unbelievable. 

Brienne was wonderfully wrong on most of her assumptions about what Jaime wanted thus far; next time, she’ll simply ask him.

Regardless, the port took heavy damage, and her father wants to divert resources to hasten the repairs to the docks and the village. Brienne nods her agreement, but she really doesn’t know the drawbacks of it. It’s too many new things all at once--being a wife, Jaime’s attention, her father wanting her to take on her role as his heir.

In a consideration Brienne doesn’t expect, her father pushes the manuscripts on the table aside and regards her. “I’ve been becoming acquainted with Ser Jaime.”

A wave of dread washes over her. “And how do you find him?”

“A bit of an ass,” Selwyn replies, “but he’s not like the stories about the famed Kingslayer would lead me to believe.”

“I expected little from him at first, too; he broke an oath and, for that, he must be wholly without honor.” Brienne looks back on that period with remorse--she’d been judgmental and naive. “Jaime only lost his way for a time.”

Her father rises from his chair and goes to the door of his solar, bolting it shut. Brienne remembers that she stood before people _much_ more powerful and dangerous than her father and defended Jaime. She can do so again here.

“Daughter, don’t mistake what I’m about to say as disapproval.” He sits back in the chair across the table from her. “I find Ser Jaime quite agreeable, but that doesn’t change the weight of his deeds.”

“It doesn’t.”

“The killing of the Mad King.” Brienne expects to hear the laundry list of Jaime’s sins from her father’s mouth. “The rumors about his relationship with the queen and the parentage of King Robert’s children. I assume _you_ know the truth?”

“I do.”

“And I assume you won’t tell me?”

“I won’t.”

Her father laughs and leans back into the chair, “You’ve grown. The girl who sailed away from here wouldn’t have returned with Jaime Lannister. However, not _one ounce_ of your stubbornness is gone.”

“I don’t tell secrets that aren’t mine to tell.” Brienne never spoke about the truth behind Jaime killing Aerys--it would’ve made others understand his actions, but it wasn’t her secret to reveal. Jaime _had_ to speak it on his own terms.

“I’m proud of you for that.”

“I learned from watching you, Father.”

There’s a long moment where Selwyn looks at her from across the table; Brienne stares right back. “The queen, by all rights, should want Ser Jaime’s head for slaying her father. It doesn’t matter if the deed was righteous--revenge can surpass all reason, and she has her position to consider.”

 _Queen Daenerys can’t appear weak._ Brienne wrings her hands together, but holds her tongue.

“You have a gentle heart. I know you mean well by bringing Ser Jaime here. I just want to be _certain_ you’re making a choice you want to make.”

 _He knows._ It’s what Brienne feared since she arrived home--that her father would know her well enough to see through the ruse. She could admit it, or...

“I already did, Father, and I don’t regret it.” It’s the truth in it’s own right. Brienne shows her faith in Jaime through words and deeds; she doesn’t need a septon to prove that.

Her father raises a bushy brow, “Because you want to protect him?”

“Because I love him,” she answers, “I want your approval because I want Jaime to be happy here. He knows little of feeling welcomed.” Brienne knows little of it, too; it’s a gift Jaime gave her, and she wants to give it back. 

Selwyn rises from his chair and leans on the table beside Brienne. “You have it, Brienne. I only wanted to know that you were making the choice for the right reasons.”

“T-Thank you,” Brienne glances away, “I want you to be proud of me.”

Her father leans down and kisses the crown of Brienne’s head, “I _always_ have been.”

* * *

“A letter?”

Brienne, focused on trying to compose a letter to Sansa, jumps out of her chair when Jaime peers over her shoulder. She puts her hand over her heart and finds it racing.

“To Lady Sansa?” Jaime continues when Brienne doesn’t answer. 

“I promised to write when we arrived,” Brienne puts the quill down so drops of ink don’t spoil her parchment. “I’m trying to find a way to tell her, obliquely, that we…”

“Finally dislodged our heads from our asses?” 

Brienne turns to find Jaime grinning; it lights up his whole expression. “I--yes, that.”

“You know, _no one_ was surprised. My brother believed it, or thought it was true enough that the truth didn’t matter. Even the queen...I’m beginning to think she went along with it to suit her goals.”

“I...think my father knows or atleast suspects,” Brienne lowers her voice, “but I kept the lie going when we spoke earlier.”

“Pod wants us to adopt him, I think. He’s the first supporter of our union.”

“He looked crushed to hear it was fake.”

“And even _more_ pleased when I told him we meant to make it real.”

Brienne gets lost looking up into Jaime’s eyes. He’s leaning over the chair, just a bit, and it would be easy to--

She grabs the collar of Jaime’s shirt and pulls him down hard so they meet. It’s not a graceful kiss--their noses knock together, and the arms of the chair dig into her side as she tries to reach him. Brienne feels a want, a _need_ that she can’t quite articulate. Instead, she twists her fingers into Jaime’s hair to hold him in place.

“You’re a _bossy_ wench,” Jaime murmurs against her lips, “I suppose I’m used to being hauled around. I rather prefer the kissing to the lecturing.” 

Brienne releases her grip, a bit embarrassed at the forcefulness of the overture. “I just want--”

 _You. Desperately._ Her desire is so acute that she can scarcely believe it’s real. Brienne is accustomed to ignoring the longing for Jaime that lingers, persistent, in the back of her mind. Ignoring what she’s feeling now would be akin to ignoring a house fire. 

Jaime shakes his head, “Do you think I dislike it?”

“Men want--”

 _“Fuck_ what men want. I’m not _men._ What do _you_ want?

“I-I’m feeling too much,” she babbles, “I don’t know where to start or stop. You’ve been treating me like a lady, but I-I...I long for some _very_ unladylike things.”

 _“Gods,_ me too.” Jaime tilts his head forward to rest their foreheads together. “A proper bridegroom would wait--it’s only two days, but I’m not sure I can.”

“It was _you_ who refused me yesterday.”

“A moment of madness.”

Their eyes meet, and the desire Brienne finds there makes her grow bold. “I e-expect something to redress the situation.”

Jaime begins laughing. Brienne’s stomach drops for a moment, expecting the laugh to grow mocking because women like Brienne of Tarth don’t deliver lines like that.

He holds out his left hand. “Take me to your bed and have your way with me.” His smile is easy, and Brienne sees the mirth is his eyes.

 _I trust him; I just have to remember it._ Brienne takes Jaime’s hand and stands from the chair. 

Jaime walks her to the bed and sits at the edge. Someone came in and tidied up--Brienne made the bed, but not this neatly. Jaime pulls Brienne in, and she braces her knee against the mattress between his legs. They kiss again, unhurried, as Jaime busies himself with tugging at Brienne’s clothes. 

He’s kissing her neck, somewhere between the faded noose marks and the slashes from the bear, when he murmurs into her skin, “My acquaintance has caused you a lot of pain.”

Jaime’s trying to soothe her with lips and tongue; the wet heat of his mouth tightens a coil in her, but Brienne doesn’t need to hear his apologies. “This was protecting me.” She finds Jaime’s wrist as he drags his teeth over her pulse point and makes her jump. “It’s far greater a loss than a few scars. I had no beauty to lose.”

He’s at her cheek, now, and his left hand is sliding under her shirt. She thinks of Jaime's gaze when they swam, or yesterday when he kissed every patch of exposed skin. The memory isn’t enough.

“I don’t regret it any longer,” he kisses her cheek; although, Brienne can barely feel it through the scar tissue. “I protected a maiden and learned some important lessons.”

“I’m yours.” Brienne puts her hands in Jaime’s hair and moves downward until she’s cupping his shoulders. 

_“Mine.”_

Jaime’s eyes darken, and he starts tugging at her clothes with the lack of precision Brienne would expect of a one-handed man. Her shirt is caught under her arms when Jaime starts pushing at it with his stump.

 _“Off,”_ he nearly grunts as Brienne tugs it over her head. Then, his gaze sweeps over her--every freckled, muscular bit that she resented for so, _so_ long. Jaime cups her meager bosom, thumb swiping over her nipple until it hardens. _“Fuck._ I could look at you all day.”

More than all the dirty lines Jaime delivered, the straightforwardness of that statement goes right to her cunt.

“I’m ugly,” she replies feebly; it’s her last line of defense against the onslaught that is Jaime.

“If you’re trying to deter me, you’ll have to do better than that,” Jaime slides his hand down her side to rest at her hip. “Call me Kingslayer, tell me I’m arrogant and fickle and faithless. Tell me that you’re a true knight, and I’m unworthy to even--”

Brienne puts a finger over Jaime’s lips, “Your point is made, ser.”

His response is to nip at the tip of her finger, then soothe it with his tongue. Brienne never would’ve considered it, but the gesture sends a jolt through her. It worsens when she helps Jaime pull his shirt off. Brienne undoes the laces on her breeches and pushes them and her smallclothes down. Then, she sits next to Jaime on the bed and pulls her boots off. 

_I’ll choose to reveal myself._

When she’s nude, she chances looking at Jaime. He’s watching her with the same barely concealed hunger that she can’t imagine directed at her. He stands and divests himself of the rest of his clothes. The ache between Brienne’s thighs intensifies. His tan skin and the lean planes of his muscles draw her eye. Then, she looks... _lower._

 _Half a god no longer. Gods, he makes my mouth go dry._ The bath at Harrenhal seems like a lifetime ago. 

“You look hungry.”

Having her wanton thoughts called out makes Brienne blush, but there’s little time to react before Jaime is on her, gently, but insistently, guiding her to the head of the bed. Then, he’s atop her, warm skin pressed against her in all the right ways. She spreads her legs to accommodate him. It’s more contact than Brienne’s ever experienced, and the intimacy, the _rightness_ of it, makes her dizzy.

Brienne runs her hands over the muscles in Jaime’s back, noting where his breath hitches and he tenses. When she reaches the dip in his back above his backside, Jaime starts laughing. “You keep grabbing at me there.”

“I--I do not!”

Jaime kisses her, but quickly moves to nuzzling at her throat. “I _never_ thought you’d look at me like that.” He keeps moving his lips downward, nipping at her skin and making her squirm. He rubs his beard over her breasts and bites at her nipples in a way that makes Brienne arch off the bed. “It’s _maddening.”_

“I-- _ah.”_ He sounds frustrated, and Brienne doesn’t know if she should feel responsible. It’s hard to think with the way he’s kissing her hip. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be,” Jaime replies, “Can you tell me what you want?”

“Y-you.”

He slides two fingers into her cunt; Brienne’s mortified at how wet she is, but Jaime just hums happily and curls them in a way that wrecks her and makes her moan.

“You can do better.”

Brienne scowls and musters herself. _You lied to the queen; you wield a Valyrian steel sword. Surely, you can manage this._ “I-I want you inside me.” 

“See, _sweetling_ , that wasn’t so hard.” Jaime kisses her inner thigh, “I want that, too.”

 _“Ugh,_ that endearment--” Another kiss--perilously close to her center. “Y-you already _did_ that.”

Jaime’s chuckle is like rich velvet, like _sin._ He’s still working two fingers in and out of her with agonizing slowness. “And _why_ would I only partake once?”

“It d-doesn’t do anything for you.”

“I don’t mean to correct my lady wife, but my cock could bludgeon a man.” He puts his left hand against her knee. “And the wetter you are, the better this will be.”

Brienne nods and drops her head against the pillow. Jaime’s so close that she can feel his breath against her. “Next time, if you’re interested, you can reciprocate.”

She’d seen _that_ before, too. It always seemed demeaning, but for Jaime--

The thought will have to wait because Jaime’s tongue makes swift work of her. Last time, Brienne was glad for the blanket because Jaime couldn’t _see_ the mess he was making of her. This time, she’s beyond such a care. Her moans can’t be contained, and she even dares to reach down and bury her fingers in Jaime’s hair. Jaime’s gaze flicks up to her occasionally, and Brienne _swears_ she can feel him smirking against her.

_Smug bastard._

Brienne can’t deny that Jaime is effective--her release crashes over her like a wave on the shore. She rides the sensation under she’s feels limp and spent on the bed.

The first sound she hears is Jaime laughing. He kisses his way back up to eye level, and Brienne’s greeted with his self-satisfied, _messy_ grin. Then, he kisses _her,_ and Brienne holds his face between her hands and tries to look stern.

“That’s--” 

“My lady wife refuses to kiss me in gratitude.” Jaime rests his chin on her shoulder. “I might suggest changing these linens ourselves, unless you want your lady’s maid to know of your pleasures.”

* * *

Brienne noticing the patch of damp bedsheet beneath her makes Jaime dissolve into a peal of laughter. Then, she glares at him, and the laughter gets worse. By the time Jaime composes himself, he’s nestled beside her, head is resting on her chest, and he’s quite lost the momentum.

“Are you well?” Her tone is a bit skeptical and a bit concerned.

Jaime nods, “It’s just...this is like a dream.”

“It does have that absurd quality.”

“Not like that,” Jaime raises his head, “It’s just peaceful, and I’m content. Well, I’ll be _more_ content after we fuck, but I’m happy like this.”

“I-I want to.” Brienne pauses. “I want _you.”_

“All that laughter took the wind out of my sails.” Sheepishly, Jaime hides his face in Brienne’s collarbone and shuts his eyes. “A younger man, perhaps--and I’ve never been half as good with my left hand. Even poorer than with a sword, if I were to compare my skill--”

There’s some movement, and then Brienne’s hand, her _glorious_ swordhand, is wrapped around the hilt of his cock. It’s wet, too, which means she-- “Did you _touch_ yourself before you--”

_“Shut up.”_

Jaime obeys, and it earns him an upward stroke. He’s half-hard, but the glide from Brienne’s hand, coated with her own wetness, will do the job. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and stops Brienne as soon as he’s ready.

“L-limited resource,” he blurts, “and as much as I want you to ride my cock, not for a lady’s first time.”

Brienne looks a bit like she might argue, but then she nods minutely. Jaime positions himself above her, taking a moment to drink in the image of her. It has little to do with beauty--although, he doesn’t see what he mocked any longer. She’s just Brienne, with her trusting, water-blue eyes, pale and awash with freckles in the afternoon light. She’s strong, but soft, and can both bear Jaime’s weight and welcome him into her arms.

Jaime props himself up with his left hand, which creates a conundrum.

“I think some, um, navigation is needed,” he aims to sound cavalier about his limitations, “to guide the ship into port.”

Brienne starts laughing, and she’s still doing so when she takes his cock in hand and says, “That’s the _least_ seductive thing I’ve ever heard.”

“My apologies for not meeting the lady’s standards.”

He nearly promises to stop talking but remembers all the times Cersei told him to shut up and fuck her, and, suddenly, he doesn’t want to promise Brienne that. She positions the head of his cock at her entrance. Jaime holds his breath and _waits._ It’s like jumping off a cliff--the airborne, weightless second before gravity takes everything to the ground.

Then, shyly, Brienne slides his cock against the folds of her cunt, not pushing in. It makes Jaime’s hips want to jerk forward and take her, but he resists. Brienne repeats the motion and lets out a fluttery sigh.

 _A maiden._ His _maiden._

“I won’t presume to tell you a woman’s business. _”_

She nods, “I know what to expect of a bedding, and I suspect that my maidenhead--”

 _Horseback and swordplay._ Brienne’s body has done things most highborn ladies never experience.

Jaime would never claim to be a great lover, but he’d been correct about the effect of the amount of attention paid to her--Brienne is slick and impossibly hot, but there’s no resistance when he enters her. There’s only a slight crease between her pale brows that Jaime kisses smooth. He searches her expression for something, _anything_ because he’s never been like this with someone and will _certainly_ ruin it.

Brienne cups his face in her other hand. _How lucky she is, to have two._ “All is well, Jaime.”

The first thrust is more of a rocking motion. He repeats it, establishing a gentle rhythm. Brienne keeps her eyes on him and grips his arms. Jaime realizes, quickly and absolutely, that he's overwhelmed by the sensation of Brienne all around him. Of all the courses of his life, _this_ is the last, and best, he could’ve imagined.

Which is why his sister is the _last_ person he wants to think of when his cock is buried in Brienne, but the ghost of her is dredged up, regardless of his desires. All the times she told him there was no other, and he’d believed her without question. All along, she’d been wrong, and a life with Brienne was his to build.

Brienne is still watching him, blush high on her cheeks. The need Jaime feels is too large for his body to contain. He picks up the pace as it pours out of him. Her eyes widen, and she gasps in pleasure. Then, because it’s Brienne, and Jaime should expect no less, she wraps her legs around his back. It impacts the angle, and Brienne stumbles his name in a way he’s never heard. It’s frantic and exalted, and he’ll remember it until his last day. 

Eventually, his left arm starts to tremble, and he tries to use his right elbow to mitigate it, and fails utterly.

“Don’t be a hero.” She puts her hand on his back and pushes; Jaime crumples like a sandcastle hit by a wave breaking on the shore. Then, she’s rubbing a slow circle between his shoulder blades. “You only have one hand.”

“I _know.”_

“I’ve got you.” Brienne’s holding him with every part of her, and Jaime’s never felt so at home. “Y-you had something you wanted, so let me--” 

They’re both people of action, especially when words don’t come easily. Brienne throws her weight into reversing their positions. Jaime slips out of her in the shuffle, but Brienne rights it quickly enough.

Then, Jaime’s looking up at his strong, confident--

 _“Wife,”_ he gasps. There’s too much glory to see all at once, so Jaime’s eyes rove over her, drinking her in until he has the full picture. “How does it feel?”

“G-good, I think.” She pauses. “Deeper.”

Jaime half-sits against the pillows and brackets her hips. Brienne doesn’t even react to the stump, and he half-forgets the asymmetrical nature of his grip. She’s steady and light on her feet with a sword, and her athleticism is a boon here. Her movements above him are smooth and swift, and Jaime’s babbling about how good she feels after a half dozen strokes. Brienne bends over him and kisses him, and Jaime pours all the frantic hunger into it. His lips miss their target, landing on her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

 _“Fuck,”_ Jaime gasps hotly into her ear, “you riding my cock outstrips my feeble imagination.”

“I still don’t see why you’d imagine _me_.”

“We’ll need to work on your dirty talk, wench.”

It might be Brienne’s spiteful, stubborn retaliation, but the gentle, swift pace of her hips _absolutely_ makes Jaime scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the conversation between Brienne and Selwyn came off as him confirming Brienne's intentions rather than genuine disapproval for Jaime. He knows her self-sacrificing nature and wants to be sure, so he tested her even though he's already on board (even though he does think Jaime is an ass ahahaha).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Jaime had imagined his wedding day, it wouldn’t have begun already in bed with his bride-to-be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, folks! I hope you enjoy the final chapter. This was such a fun fic to write!

As a girl, Brienne would sit with the wives of merchants or nobles visiting Tarth from the Stormlands. Sometimes, a merchant from Essos would bring a lady who would join them. They would take tea and work on their sewing. Septa Roelle was always desperate in her attempts to enhance Brienne’s feminine graces, so she would make Brienne spend the afternoon with them, clumsily embroidering a handkerchief. 

“It can be a present for your betrothed, “ Septa Roelle told her. “Watch and listen how the ladies speak.”

Brienne’s embroidery was clumsy, and she didn’t want to give Humfrey Wagstaff a handkerchief. The shame of Ronnet Connington and the rose was too fresh in her mind. She wanted Humfrey Wagstaff to never come to Tarth. She knelt in the sept and prayed to the Smith for the winds in Shipbreaker Bay to carry his ship in the wrong direction. Lord Wagstaff was older than her father, and Brienne knew he wouldn’t be pleased with her. Her dancing was passable, but she was too tall to make a good partner. The lopsided suns and moons on the handkerchief told the story of her embroidery skills, and she made poor company because she was awkward and bad at conversation.

She didn’t learn much from the ladies about the things Roelle wished her to know. What she _did_ observe was that the ladies liked to talk about their husbands, often in inappropriate ways. Despite her size, Brienne was so quiet, tucked in a corner in her chair, that she assumed they forgot her presence.

 _None_ of them seem satisfied. They laughed and commiserated that their husbands rutted above them like animals, spilled into them, and fell asleep. _They only want sons._ Many of them visited whores or had dalliances with a maid or a cook, which some of the women encouraged.

 _Why would they want to be betrayed?_ Brienne understood quickly enough that they wanted to be left alone.

Only the occasional woman from Essos would speak of the things her lord husband did for _her._ The other ladies twittered about the idea, interested, but claiming the exotic concepts weren’t for them. She listened to the lady from Essos recounting her lover kneeling between her thighs. She listened to other ladies gasp and the indecency, but didn’t quite understand _what_ the act was. 

It didn’t make Brienne any less anxious about Humfrey Wagstaff. She imagined sharing the marriage bed with a great, selfish beast. She imagined him atop her and felt sick with the thought. Worse, she imagined being made to cease her afternoons with Sir Goodwin in the armory.

 _No man will suffer his wife to wield a blade like a man._ Septa Roelle had tried to convince her father to stop the lessons, but he never agreed. Brienne didn’t understand why he allowed her, but training with the sword was the only part of her long, boring days that Brienne didn’t despise. 

If Septa Roelle’s aim was to show Brienne how unhappy she would be as the wife of a lord, it worked.

The only similarity between those stories and Jaime is that he _absolutely_ falls asleep. Brienne thinks she dozes, too, because the light in the room is different when she wakes. She also doesn’t recall the blanket being pulled to her waist, or Jaime cozying up to her. His head rests on her shoulder, and he has one leg thrown over her. His left hand rests on her stomach, perilously close to her breast.

The men in the stories she heard didn’t do _anything_ like that. Brienne’s known for a long time that Jaime’s devotion made him unique; she just never expected to be the object of it.

They’ll need to rise and dress for dinner soon, so she nudges Jaime’s shoulder to wake up. It happens slowly, but after a moment, he sits up. Brienne savors the intimacy of how unguarded he looks.

Jaime shows his affection by teasing, so Brienne says, “My lord husband finally wakes from his slumber.”

“...How long was I gone?”

Brienne lost track of the time, so she guesses. “Less than an hour.”

“You have my apologies, my lady.”

“For what?”

“For taking your maidenhead and then _falling asleep_ like Robert fucking Baratheon.” Jaime sounds angry with himself, but Brienne doesn’t understand why. He turns away from her and hunches his shoulders. “For that, I’m little better than the men your father would’ve married you off to.” 

“I was jesting, Jaime. You needn’t take it so hard.”

“I kept thinking of some louse of a man like Hyle Hunt or Ronnet Connington taking you to the marriage bed and not treating you as you should be treated. I know their ilk.”

“I know it, too.” 

“They jam their cock in a woman and thrust enough times to make a son. They might pass out afterwards, or maybe the lady will be blessed enough that they’d leave her in peace for the night.”

Brienne wraps her arms around Jaime from behind and props her chin on his shoulder. He can’t see her, which might make her words flow more easily. _Even though he’s seen it all._ “You know that you weren’t like that, don’t you?”

“I wanted to be better for you,” Jaime’s a little tense in her embrace but relaxes by increments. “And for me, too. I haven’t known--”

“I’m happy.” Brienne whispers into his ear, and Jaime shivers a bit. She’ll be surprised, perhaps forever, that he reacts to her in such a way. She was just as shocked at the look of bliss on his face when she was on top of him.

“Good,” Jaime answers. “My sister...wasn’t shy in her criticisms.”

“She isn’t here.” She knows that Cersei lingers in Jaime’s mind, but Brienne never feels her between them.

“Thank the gods, wench.” Jaime chuckles and turns in her embrace. “Now, I just have to figure out how to keep up with you.”

“K-keep up with?”

“The perils of a young bride,” he clicks his tongue and shakes his head in mock concern. “You’re the Maid of Tarth no longer, and you’re going to be _insatiable._ If I’m in need of a nap after just _one_ bout--”

* * *

Eventually, Brienne fends off Jaime’s wandering hands long enough to wash with the water basin, don fresh clothes, then brush and braid her hair. Then, she brushes Jaime’s, even though he can do it himself. He smirks the entire time, and Brienne realizes he’s not the only one who dotes.

“We _still_ need new clothes.” She smoothes Jaime’s sleeve, “I meant to send for some, but I’ve been preoccupied.

“I take that as a compliment.”

She makes certain Jaime sees her roll her eyes. “I’ve nothing to wear to the sept except the same poorly-mended clothes I’ve been wearing for...too long.”

“You’ve a decent sword given to you by your betrothed,” Jaime replies, “Fit for a knight of the Age of Heroes.”

 _Decent._ Only Jaime would call Oathkeeper decent; it feels like a slight even to jest about such a thing.

“I can’t get married wearing a sword.”

“Why not, my lady? You wield it well, and it’s yours.”

“Fine. I can’t _just_ wear a sword.”

Predictably, Jaime waggles his eyebrows, “Your idea, not mine, wench. Does my lady want a beautiful gown?”

 _“No--_ I don’t know. I look _horrid_ in gowns, and there’s not time to make one. I’d like to look like I’m not wearing rags leftover from the war.” Brienne isn’t vain--there’s little point to that, but even she wants to look presentable.

“I’ve only seen you in two gowns. The pink Myrish lace was...hideous, regardless of wearer. The blue, when I gave you Oathkeeper...”

 _The only gown I didn’t feel awful in._ Brienne wishes she still had it, padded bodice and all. “I was fond of the color.”

“It suited your eyes.”

She straightens her bed as best she can. The sheets are...not clean. Brienne covers them with the quilt before she’s overcome with embarrassment. It might be her imagination, but she _swears_ the room smells like their activities.

Jaime laughs at her attempt. “I told you that was fruitless. Just send for someone to change them.”

“When they’re...in _that_ state?”

She would change them himself, but Jaime tells the first person they pass that the lord and lady need new bed linens. Brienne’s face has _almost_ stopped burning like the sun by the time they greet her father.

* * *

“The ceremony will be quite...simple, I’m afraid,” Selwyn says as wine is being poured. “There was little time to prepare, given Queen Daenerys’s sense of urgency on the matter.”

Jaime _almost_ replies that there doesn’t need to be a ceremony at all, only to remember that Brienne and he aren’t _truly_ wed. It’s such a momentous thing to overlook, yet he keeps doing so. The ruse went on long enough that it became the truth in his mind. He’s so bound to Brienne already that standing across from in a sept seems trite. The afternoon spent in her bed is more affirming of what’s between them than some pretty words. 

Instead, Jaime replies, “The queen _really_ desires me wedded and bedded in the Faith of the Seven.”

Selwyn doesn’t even react to the _bedded_ part of the statement. “Does the ceremony not matter to you, Ser Jaime?”

“I was content to wed Brienne under a weirwood tree in the freezing dead of night, just the two of us.”

Brienne’s expression softens. Jaime hopes she understands that even though it didn’t happen that way, the statement is just as true. 

“It’s fine, Father,” Brienne looks around the table, “I have everyone I need here.”

Pod, across the table from them, is positively _beaming._ Brienne would certainly be pleased if Sansa was present, but Jaime can’t think of anyone else he needs, either. _Maybe Tyrion, but we’re not there yet._

“Nevertheless,” Selwyn looks a touch disappointed, “My only daughter deserved a better wedding, especially since she found a groom of her choice.”

A large wedding would embarrass Brienne. If things played out different, and he had the opportunity to plan it, Jaime would have chosen something small, too.

“I’m happy,” Brienne replies, “There’s no need for a feast or any fuss.”

Selwyn looks at them both, “That’s all the matters. I’ve learned my lessons about guessing at what will make you happy, Brienne.” 

_Good, because you’re shit at it._ Jaime holds his tongue on that thought. His goodfather is trying, and Jaime should be gracious. It’s not as though he understood Brienne in one turn of the moon, either. 

Brienne’s expression is a bit pinched, so Jaime bumps her knee under the table with his stump. She squeezes his arm and brightens immediately. It’s so, so good to be able to comfort her with a glance or a gesture.

“It’s a formality,” Jaime says, hoping it will turn the conversation, “so let’s just make it a pleasant day.”

“I’m happy to be able to see it for myself.” Selwyn drinks for his glass and it obscures his expression, “...Even if it’s just a formality. A wedding without a witness is...strange.”

“It _was_ quite intimate.”

“I-It just...felt right,” Brienne interjects, “I thought we might die any day.”

Selwyn looks between the two of them and then smiles, “Brienne, I hope you’ll let me walk you to your groom.”

Brienne smiles, too, “Of course, Father.”

* * *

“My lady.”

Brienne is on the terrace off the hall where they dined, staring at the last streaks of orange and purple in the sky. She missed the sunsets on Tarth--each new one like a painting.

Pod approaches her so quietly that Brienne nearly drops her wine glass. 

“P-Pod,” she places the glass on the railing. “You startled me.”

There are few braziers around the terrace, but it’s enough light to see Pod’s smirk. “Perhaps we should train more if I can sneak up on you so easily.”

“Don’t be cheeky.” There’s no real force behind the words; Pod is maturing beyond Brienne’s ability to scold him. He has a shadow of facial hair on his jaw by the end of the day, and he’s holding a glass of wine. Brienne usually only lets him drink supervised, but perhaps Pod is old enough to choose for himself

 _He_ certainly thinks he is; Jaime seems to think so, too.

“Sorry, my lady.”

“No, Pod; it was humorous enough, and perhaps I _am_ distracted.” 

Pod leans his elbows on the stone wall next to her, “Thinking of Ser Jaime?”

There’s little point in lying to her squire; she _does_ make a point to lower her voice. “I can’t help but feel that my father _knows.”_

“He might suspect,” Pod’s voice is equally low, “but does it matter?”

“It means he’s been letting us--” Brienne pauses, words vanishing. “--act as though we’re wed, when we’re not.”

Pod grins like he read through her pause. Hopefully, Jaime didn’t tell him anything. “You and Ser Jaime acted as though you were wed _long_ before now, my lady.”

“We...did?”

Her squire’s grin widens, “You bicker, but you look out for one another. I-I admire it, and I’d like something like that...someday.”

“Is that why you spend your days with the village girls?”

It’s nice to know that someone _else_ in her company blushes, even if he is a boy of fifteen. “No, they’re just pretty, my lady.”

 _Jaime should have a talk with him._ Brienne would stutter through it. “Treat them like ladies, Pod.”

Pod’s grin shifts to more subdued; it reminds Brienne when they first met, and he was stumbling and quiet. _Before_ someone _taught him a dozen bad habits._

“I’ll treat them like Ser Jaime treats you.”

“Pod...I don’t know if that’s…” _Good advice._ Jaime treats her well, but Pod shouldn’t be doing _anything_ of the activities they’re doing. He’s shooting up like a weed in spring; it makes Brienne want to push on his shoulders to squish him back to the boy she met.

Then, Pod moves closer to her and places his hand on her arm. “My lady, I’m happy for you, for both you and Ser Jaime. You’re so kind, but you always seemed like you lived behind a wall.”

“I-I did, in a way.”

“My mother abandoned me. I-I wish she’d been more like you, then maybe--”

“I’m not your mother, Pod.”

He gives a furtive nod, “I--I know.”

“I was eight summers old when you were born.” Jaime made so many jokes about Pod being her child. Brienne puts her hand over Pod’s. “So, perhaps I’m more like a sister.”

“That’s still family, my lady.”

Brienne squeezes his hand, “It is.”

* * *

Jaime hadn’t imagined his wedding day since long before he donned the white cloak of the Kingsgaurd. He thought to marry Cersei, but that was never to be, so there was little point in imagining anything else.

He was a knight, not a husband or a father.

If Jaime _had_ imagined the day, it wouldn’t have begun already in bed with his bride-to-be. Brienne is spooned in front of him, all her delightful warmth pressed against him. He managed to convince her to stay unclothed after their last bout of fucking. Brienne was shy, so it was a small victory.

_I won’t be able to convince her every time, so I should savor it._

It takes Jaime a moment to even remember they’re due in the sept at midday--another thing he’d never expected of his wedding day. The event should be looming and all-encompassing, but Jaime knows he’ll feel just the same after.

 _I’m already hers._ It’s good, finally, to feel at home. They’ve time, yet, but selfishly, Jaime wants Brienne to wake. She’ll be cranky, but only for a moment. He can make it up to her in many, _many_ interesting ways.

Jaime leans on his elbow to peer over her, “Brienne.”

Watching her wake up amuses him; Jaime always knew Brienne to be a light sleeper on the road, but the safety of being at home changes that. She rises early, but it takes some effort to stir her.

“Wench.”

Her features scrunch in distaste.

_“Sweetling.”_

On the third attempt, Brienne’s eyes flutter open. “Good morning, Jaime.”

“Good morning, wife.”

“...Not yet.”

“A technicality, certainly.”

Brienne rolls her eyes, “Quite an important one, regardless.”

“Are you anxious?”

She shakes her head against the pillow, “In truth, I almost forgot. It feels…”

“Like it’s already true.” Jaime leans down and kisses her, “And there’s no cold feet?”

“None.”

“And if Renly Baratheon rose from the dead with a sudden interest in what’s between a woman’s thighs, you wouldn’t drop me and run to him?”

Brienne’s expression closes; Jaime realizes it was a poor jape to make. He japes about _everything,_ especially what hurts, but that’s not her way. An apology is on the tip of his tongue when Brienne speaks.

“I loved Renly the way a little girl loves a prince in a song.” Brienne’s smile is tinged with regret; Jaime knows the gesture well. “I-I failed to protect him, and I carry that, but my feelings were small compared to my love for you.”

 _“Oh,_ Brienne.”

She moves onto her back to look up at Jaime. “Renly was safe--there was no hope, so I could bear the grief of it.”

“Are you implying I’ve caused you _no_ grief?” 

“Gods, no.” Her expression turns soft. “You became Renly in _all_ my daydreams, until I couldn’t think of him at all.”

“That _does_ sound like grief, wench.”

Brienne reaches up to take his face in her hands and rubs the pads of her thumbs over his cheekbones. “It was.” 

“You know that...before, there was only my sister.”

“I assumed, but truly no others? Not even once?”

Brienne’s judgment can be swift and final, but it’s been a long while since Jaime feared it. She knows the worst of him and hasn’t wavered. “Since we were children and our mother caught us, she was the only one.” 

“I...never could imagine what was between you.”

“Please don’t try.” Fuck, even _he_ avoids trying most of the time. Sometimes, Jaime wants to look back and feel _nothing_ for his sister, but that will never be the case. “I mistook possession for love. I thought we were equal, but we weren’t.”

“That’s…”

“...The type of fidelity you can expect.” The shadow of Cersei passes; it lingers less every time. Jaime shifts until he’s straddling Brienne, so she’ll understand his intentions for the span of time before they need to rise and dress. Then, he leans close so there’s no space between them. “Now, enough of the past, wench.”

The sweetness of the smile that graces Brienne’s face makes Jaime’s heart ache with his love for her. 

“To the future, then."

* * *

Tarth’s sept is lined with stained glass windows depicting the Seven. The midday sun creates rainbows on the floor. Jaime doesn’t hold much love for septs, but he admits this one is beautiful.

Pod is holding a crown of flowers that he holds out to Brienne.

“For me?” Brienne whispers.

“The village girls helped me make it.”

Jaime chuckles and wonders what _else_ the village girls helped the lad with. He’ll leave it up to Brienne to parent her squire.

“It’s lovely, Pod, but I think it would suit Jaime more.”

Pod makes a confused hum, but brings the crown to Jaime as Brienne bid him too. He looks _very_ skeptical when he holds it out. Jaime takes it and places it atop his head. The crown is made of the same wildflowers that were in the field they rode. It makes Jaime feel like Tarth is part of him, too.

“If my lady wants me in a flower crown,” Jaime tells Pod, “then who am I to disagree?”

Pod looks about to say something as Selwyn comes through the heavy wooden doors, followed by the septon. Jaime knows he’s supposed to wait for Brienne at the front near the altar. He starts to go to his place, but Selwyn stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

Brienne’s father looks at him from head to toe. “Ser Jaime, why are you dressed like the maiden?”

“It’s part of my wedding regalia, Lord Selwyn. I assumed it was some Stormlands tradition.”

Selwyn raises his eyebrows, “...It’s not.”

“Well, I always like starting my own traditions.”

“A trend you’ve pulled my daughter into, it seems.”

Jaime glances at Brienne a few paces away; she’s talking to Pod in hushed tones. The lad hugs her, and Jaime turns back to Selwyn. “I assure you; I’ve never pulled Brienne anywhere. Only the opposite.”

“I want Brienne to have what she chooses for herself.”

“As do I,” Jaime replies, “I’m just privileged to be included amongst her choices.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he says, “Was it my daughter’s idea?”

“To wed?” Jaime wants to say _yes_ because she’s the one who stood before Queen Daenerys and claimed him as her husband. Perhaps Brienne told her father differently when they spoke.

“No, Ser Jaime,” Selwyn grins, now; it’s a bit mischievous, “to pretend.”

 _Fuck._ Jaime’s opens his mouth, but, for once, no words come out. Denying the truth doesn’t even occur to him. Eventually, he stammers, “I wondered, a few times--”

Selwyn claps Jaime on the back with enough force to stagger him forward a step. “You’re a poor liar, Ser Jaime, and my daughter is even worse.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I put Jaime in a flower crown once before, but I am a sucker for things like that, so I did it again. It's the two cakes theory; there's never too much of a good thing!
> 
> And I hope no one is disappointed that I didn't write the actual wedding. The point of the fic was that they were basically married already, and I've written Jaime and Brienne getting married three times already ahahahaha.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts here or on tumblr! You can find me @kurikaesu-haru.


End file.
